


(There's) Sulphur in Our Blood

by WonderWolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Bad Flirting, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Character Death Outside of Derek Hale or Stiles Stilinski, Choo Choo... All Aboard the Angst Train, Elements of Horror, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Laura Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Multiple Characters with PTSD, Mystery, Non-descriptive Torture, References to Depression, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles' Familiar needs therapy, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, This story is darker than Teen Wolf's lighting, updated with artwork
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-06-26 02:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 165,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderWolf/pseuds/WonderWolf
Summary: "Harris put you on a recon mission with Derek. You. Alone with Derek. On a mission. Together,” Scott says, slowly. “Does Harris want you dead?”“I believe so," Stiles says gravely.(Secret Agent AU where Derek blames Stiles for his sister’s death and Stiles is pretty sure that Derek’s going to murder him. As if that weren’t enough to deal with, Stiles’ familiar keeps having public breakdowns.Oh, and there’s a mole in the agency, so there’s that too).





	1. Reinstated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to put warnings in the notes for each chapter, but I might miss some. Please be aware that this fic does involve MYSTERY and HORROR elements. For these reasons, not everything will be tagged. Please read with caution.
> 
>  
> 
> **What I guarantee this story DOESN'T have: 1. rape/non-con or 2. Stiles or Derek dying.**
> 
>  
> 
> There are violent scenes throughout this story — primarily dealing with Stiles’ familiar. He needs therapy. But also elements of mutilation/torture/general horror.
> 
> So...uh...welcome and enjoy?

  
(Artwork by Geeky-Sova)

 

** Chapter 1: Reinstated **

The room is completely white, the linoleum tiles smooth and shiny beneath his feet as he steps over the threshold. The door behind him closes with an ominous _thunk_ , leaving him completely alone in the bright room.

Stiles inhales slowly, counting for four seconds and holding, before releasing the breath. It’s a calming technique he’d learned during training, but it doesn’t help as much as it should. Or, at all.

He moves forward, heading towards the middle of the room. There are two empty chairs facing each other with a table between them, an unspoken reminder of what is about to happen. 

The moment he sits down, the door reopens. Stiles doesn’t look, he’s been taught better than that. Instead, he stares at the blank wall in front of him, waiting with patience he doesn’t really have, but knows how to fake. 

Harris, tall and lanky, comes to a stop on the opposite side of the table. His eyes are dark and harsh, like always, glaring at him through the lens of sleek, smudge-less glasses. He’s wearing typical corporate gear: a nearly perfect black-colored suit that was likely chosen for its remarkable similarity to the color of his heart.

The door clicks open again and more footsteps echo through the room. A familiar blonde-haired woman stands beside Harris and tension bleeds out of Stiles' shoulders. 

Heather is twenty-one, only a few months older than Stiles, but more youthful in almost every way. She smirks at him, but there’s a softness in her eyes when she looks at him, a softness that took years to have directed at him. Years of jealousy and childhood dramatics, late night movie marathons and studying, fits of uncontrollable laughter and screaming matches, and the deep understanding that comes from being one of the only people who shares his unique gift of magic. 

Stiles’ eyes trail over her petite figure, checking for any signs of injury or harm since the last time they’d seen each other. She appears healthy, her pale skin unblemished and unmarked in the way that Stiles’ isn’t.   
  
Stiles doesn’t miss the fact that she's holding a bulging manila folder. Her fingers clench uncomfortably around the paperwork, as if nervous about the contents they hold.

“Hey, loser. Long time no see,” Heather says with a wink. Harris' lip curls in distaste, as if already fed up with this meeting.

“Sorry. I’ve been busy defending my innocence and all that. You know how it is,” Stiles says, gesturing with a carefree wave of his hands. The thick, iron cuffs around his wrists clang together at the movement, drawing her attention to them. Her smile becomes tight at the edges, her eyes losing some of their lightness.

While the cuffs are undignified and uncomfortable, he’s grateful Lydia had allowed him to line them with a thin layer of leather. The small mercy kept his skin from burning in reaction to the iron.

“Can we at least pretend this is a professional meeting?” Harris gripes. Heather obligingly remains silent, though her eyes roll at his impatience. 

Harris holds out his hand for the papers and she quickly hands them over. After briefly adjusting his glasses, Harris peruses the documents. Stiles’ back straightens and knee bounces as he anxiously awaits the news.

“For the past two months, you’ve been suspended for your role in your partner, Laura Hale’s, death…” Stiles’ nails carve little moons into his palms, but he keeps his face impassive as Harris continues, “…and for suspected treason. Ms. Martin launched a thorough investigation and has found you to be not at fault.” Harris’ face scrunches, his tone becoming more and more sour as he reads, and Stiles knows he would’ve preferred to have Stiles be found guilty.

Adrian Harris, also known by his title of ‘Director of Assignments’, has searched for reasons to fire him for years now, having hated Stiles since he'd been a mouthy teen. And, when looking back on all the pranks teenage Stiles had pulled, Stiles could understand some of the resentment. 

Still, relief floods through him at the news.

Harris slaps the folder closed with an air of disgust, tossing it onto the table for Stiles to read. “Also, you’ve been reinstated as an agent. _Congrats_.”

Stiles’ fingers tremble as they caress the folder reverently, almost afraid to open it and find out that it isn’t true.   
  
But it is true. He’s been declared not guilty. They believe him. _They believe him._

“Reinstated as a field agent or…?” Stiles licks at his dry lips, trying to hide how important the answer is to him. Harris lets out a mirthless huff.

“You were assigned to a team to fill their need for a magic user. It turns out we are dire need of witches out in the field.” Harris grits his teeth as if the sentence pains him. It probably does. “Even if a barely capable one.”

Stiles ignores the jab, his eyes darting to Heather, unable to take Harris at his word.   
  
“I’m a field mage again?”   
  
Heather doesn’t answer verbally, but she doesn't need to. Her genuine smile and hint of pride shining in her blue eyes is answer enough.

Stiles eagerly flips the folder open, rapidly absorbing as much information as he can.  
  
“They didn’t fire me,” he says, voice full of awe. He'd been so sure they were going to fire him, though he’s still confused as to what exactly happens to someone when they are fired.  
  
It doesn't make sense.

Everyone blames him for Laura’s death. Hell, even he blames himself.   
  
Why did they decide to keep him? What convinced them he was innocent? Did they really think it wasn’t his fault?

“I wouldn’t get too excited though, kid,” Harris says, a twisted smile on his face. “You haven’t officially met your partner yet. And, in case it escaped that tiny brain of yours, I was given the pleasure of choosing that for you.”

The words wash over him like a wave of ice water. He swivels to face Heather with a panicked expression, but she reveals nothing. “It isn’t Matt, is it? I thought—”

Heather opens her mouth to speak, but is silenced by Harris.

“Need I remind you that Matt passed his own investigation? Unlike you, his investigation ended quickly, since he had been knocked unconscious during the incident. He was released back to active duty over a month ago. As much as I would have loved to have partnered you two together, he is currently assisting on another assignment in Nice.” Harris sounds genuinely disappointed by that fact. “Otherwise, he would have made a great partner for you. He could have taught you a lot about loyalty and the value in being quiet.”

Stiles stares down at the papers numbly, still not entirely convinced that Matt isn’t his partner. Why else would Harris look so pleased with himself? There’s no one else Stiles would hate being partnered with. All of the other field agents were somewhat friendly with him or, at least, not hostile _._

“However, as you may well already know, Derek Hale recently gained Alpha status and was promoted to Field Commander. He’s been assigned to Laura’s old team,” Harris states smugly.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Motherfucking shit on a stick.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Stiles chants, clumsily tearing through the pages as best he can with his hands still cuffed together. He tosses each page to the side, ripping a few of them in the process, until he lands on the most important one.

**Agent Twenty-Four and Agent Five have been assigned Mission 63-00A.**

“Derek Hale? You assigned me _Derek_ _Hale_?” Stiles’ voice goes shrill and scratchy like it does whenever he starts to panic. His chair  _screeches_ back against the tiles. 

“Derek is a good guy. I’m sure he won’t take it out on you,” Heather tries to reason, but Stiles paces, mind racing as Harris sniggers.

Of course. _Of course_ this would happen. Stiles was cleared for duty, but Harris would never allow that without some kind of residual punishment, some way of getting back at him. What better way to do that than to assign him to his ex-partner's vengeful brother?

The same brother who believes Stiles is the reason his twin sister is dead.

“You’re expected to report tomorrow at zero-five-hundred,” Harris announces gleefully. “Oh, and, Stiles? Do be more careful this time around. We don’t want another partner killed-in-action, now do we?” 

The words hang in the air, a final slap in the face, as Harris strides out of the room.

“It might not be that bad,” Heather reassures.

“I’m fucked,” Stiles whines, dropping his head onto the table.

o0o0o0o 

Stiles can't stop worrying about it. Throughout the day his anxiety worsens. The thought of facing Derek, of trusting him not to murder him in cold blood the moment they are alone together, sits heavily in his gut.

He’s reviewed the mission papers over and over again, memorizing every detail no matter how minuscule, but nothing eases the fear.

“Harris put you on a recon mission with Derek. You. Alone with Derek. On a mission. Together,” Scott says, slowly, obviously struggling to comprehend the lunacy of the situation as much as Stiles is. His fists are raised in a protective stance, brown shaggy hair damp from a recent shower, the strands clinging to the back of his neck and forehead.

They’re alone in the gym, which had given them ample privacy for Stiles to explain his shitty luck to Scott: his long-time best friend, recently-turned-werewolf, and fellow field agent. 

At least there is one positive to having Derek Hale as his partner. Now that he’s been reassigned to Laura’s old team, he and Scott will remain on the same team together. However, their excitement over that fact had swiftly been eclipsed by the reminder that it's now _Derek’s_ team.

“Correct,” Stiles confirms, sticking his hands out as Scott charges at him. He tossing Scott back by flinging up a magical barrier at the last second, but Scott lands on his feet with supernatural grace, completely unbothered, as if he'd expected the move. To be fair, it is Stiles’ signature move while fighting. 

Stiles clenches and unclenches his hands, smiling down at the feeling. After two months of suspension, he had forgotten how good it feels to be unchained, to be able to wield his magic whenever and however he wants.

“Does Harris want you dead?” 

“I believe so,” Stiles says gravely.

Scott lowers his hands— and his guard— and Stiles strikes, swiping at Scott’s ankles. Scott merely steps back to avoid it, snapping his fingers as a thought occurs to him. 

“But, wait— hear me out. Derek was promoted to the commander position, right?” Stiles nods from the ground, having sat down when Scott easily avoided his attack. They aren't known for their intense sparring sessions. “That means he must've passed the psych exam. He can’t be murderously angry over Laura, it wouldn’t make him a good leader.”

“Last week I saw him in the cafeteria and he bared his fangs at me."

“Maybe he was smiling at you.” 

“I’m pretty sure I saw Death itself in his eyes,” Stiles says, pausing before adding, “it looked vaguely like Lydia.” 

He takes the hand Scott offers him and propels himself forward, aiming a half-assed karate-chop to Scott's neck. He cackles— half in pain, half in amusement— when Scott grabs his arm and twists it behind his back. 

“I’ve had dreams that started like this once,” Stiles wheezes.

“Fuck off, man. Gross,” Scott says through his own laughter, instantly releasing him. Stiles winks, hands raising in mock-surrender.

“I didn’t say they involved you.”

“Thank god.”

“I know you’ve only got eyes for Al—”

“Stiles!” Scott hisses, eyes wide with panic as he glances around the empty room. “There are _cameras_!”

Stiles rolls his eyes. And people think he's the dramatic one? “You say that like it’s a secret you have feelings for...” he pitches his voice low at Scott’s horrified look, “... _you-know-who_.”

Scott’s nose scrunches and he aims a weak punch at Stiles’ face, his fist bouncing off an opaque green barrier that _POPS_ into existence between them.

“She isn’t Voldemort.” Scott throws another half-assed punch that’s deflected off the brief magical barrier. Stiles waves a hand and it vanishes.

“Nope. She’s more like Harry Potter. But that would make you Ginny Weasley, and you aren’t as badass as Ginny Weasley— book version, not movie version. You’re more like... Dobby,” Stiles states after a moment of thought.

“How am I like Dobby?” Scott asks, affronted.

“You’re fiercely loyal, dude. It’s a good thing.”

“But he hurts himself. And he _dies._ ” Stiles raises an eyebrow, honestly impressed that Scott remembered that much. It’s no secret that Stiles is far more into nerd-culture than he is.

“Dude, spoilers.”

“It’s been out for years and you’ve watched each movie like six times!” Scott defends. “I’m not Dobby. I’m Ron Weasley. He has a supportive family, is loyal to his friends, and falls in love with the super smart girl who’s also one of his best friends.”

“I’ll accept that you’re Ron, but Allison is not Hermione.” 

Scott sends a panicked glance to the nearest security camera, stiltedly exclaiming, “What a _strange_ _comment_. I don’t know what Allison has to do with this discussion!”

“That was real convincing. You should quit this gig and become an actor instead,” Stiles deadpans.

“Shut up,” Scott grumbles, ears pinking in embarrassment.

“Dude. Everyone knows you have a crush on her. Literally everyone. it’s impossible to miss it. You’re that obvious,” Stiles says with a shrug. Scott only appears more embarrassed, so Stiles adds, “It's okay, she’s equally smitten.”

Scott’s eyes widen with hope and he perks up. “You think so?”

Stiles snorts. Allison is as painfully obsessed with Scott as he is with her, the only two who seem to be out of the loop are Allison and Scott themselves. 

“Absolutely sure.”

“Oh. Cool,” Scott says with a dreamy grin. 

Before becoming a field agent, Scott had been an infirmary assistant, training with Melissa and Deaton to become a doctor. Allison was a frequent customer to the infirmary, despite never having anything more than scrapes and bruises. Stiles will never forget the way her cheeks had gone bright red when he'd pointed out that she happened to only ever visit when Scott was on shift.

When Scott was nineteen, he'd been bitten while treating a feral Alpha and was near inconsolable after. He’d never wanted to be a werewolf, let alone a field agent, but Lydia said the agency was lacking supernatural agents and he was being drafted.

It was a dark time and Scott’s anger at his situation didn’t help with his newfound abilities. But, to their surprise, alongside Stiles and Scott’s mother, Melissa, Allison had also stepped up to support him. She and Stiles worked together, staying up late researching the best ways to teach Scott control without an alpha (since he refused to join any team). 

It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. It took a few months of Stiles’ endless prodding (and not so subtle hinting at being close to Allison) before Scott had caved, accepted Laura as his alpha, and joined her team. Scott's now comfortable in his skin and in full control of his shift, showing more patience and restraint than some born wolves.

If anyone asked Stiles what he was most proud of in his life, without a doubt, he'd say his greatest accomplishment was being there for his best friend and seeing him grow into the man he is today.

The gym doors burst open and Stiles meeps as Lydia, elegant and fierce as always, directs her stony gaze at him. 

He shoots Scott a betrayed look.   
  
“Dude _._  You’re supposed to warn me when Lydia’s coming,” he hisses, knowing Scott will hear him easily with his enhanced senses. At least he has the decency to look guilty.

Lydia stomps forward, her heels clacking against the floor. Her narrowed green eyes stay trained on Stiles.   
  
“You better not be using magic in here,” she scolds.

Stiles swallows. “Only a little.”

Lydia lets out a put-upon sigh. “You have a mission tomorrow, you can’t be wasting your energy like this.”

“I barely used any magic, I swear. Right, Scotty?” Stiles lifts his eyebrows, silently imploring Scott to follow his lead.

Scott nods enthusiastically. “Very little. Barely any. Only, like, one or two barriers—” Scott halts, wide-eyed at Stiles’ frantic motioning. Stiles freezes when Lydia’s gaze snaps back to him, fury in her beautiful green eyes.

“Barriers?” she repeats, voice dangerous, knowing how much magical energy barriers take to make.

“He didn’t mean barriers,” Stiles lies.

“I didn’t mean barriers,” Scott parrots, taking the hint.

“He meant something else,” Stiles says.

“It was more like sparkles. He used his magic to... make sparkles." Scott winces at his own terrible lie. Stiles plasters a fake grin on his face at Lydia’s calculating stare.  Scott is officially the worst liar in the history of the planet.

“Sparkles,” Lydia repeats dubiously, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raising with interest.

“Yeah, you know, since it's almost the Fourth of July and all.” Stiles lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers. Red, white, and blue sparkles shoot out of his fingertips. Lydia remains unimpressed. “Woo, go America,” he cheers weakly.

“It’s September,” Lydia helpfully supplies.

“Happy Labor Day?” Stiles tries.

“It’s a great move for blinding the enemy at close range,” Scott offers.

Lydia finally loses patience with the conversation. “Get out of here, Scott.”

“But—”

“I just saw Allison in the cafeteria. She seemed awfully lonely sitting by herself,” Lydia says casually.

Scott’s eyes turn to Stiles’, wide and imploring. With a sigh, Stiles waves him off. He can admit he’s got a weakness for those brown puppy-dog eyes. Scott smiles at him gratefully and practically skips through the doors like the lovesick loser he is.

“You can relax. I come bearing gifts,” Lydia says when they’re alone. Stiles only has a moment to be surprised before something is tossed at him. He grabs it on reflex, eyes widening with happiness when he registers what it is.

“No way, you brought me a plum? The kitchen’s been out of them for weeks!” Stiles eagerly bites into the firm, red-purple skin. Juice gushes out of it in a wave. He catches most of it in his mouth, but some of it drips onto the ground. He swipes at the droplets with his bare foot.

Lydia’s face pinches. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love me,” Stiles counters mid-chew.

“Only sometimes,” Lydia corrects haughtily, but her lips twitch, belying her amusement. “If you come back from this mission alive, I’ll bring you more. You could give one to your dumb bird too.” It sounds like a joke, but her voice goes soft in the way it does when she’s being affectionate. 

Stiles smiles softly. They’ve been unspoken friends almost as long as he and Scott have, though she doesn’t voice her affection or hug him the way that Scott does. Instead, she shows her love through moments like this— giving him a gift and showing concern in a barely disguised way.

“I’m sure Walmart would appreciate that."   
  
“I still can’t believe you named your familiar ‘Walmart’,” Lydia says flatly.  
  
Stiles shrugs. He’s used to hearing that by now. “Technically he named himself. Besides, it’s fitting, because—”  
  
“I really don’t need to hear your spiel about his name again. But where is the little asshole anyway?” she questions, as though noticing the lack of noise and chaos that usually accompanies the blackbird.

“You don’t remember? You banned him from leaving my room after he pooped on Jackson… again.” Lydia’s eyes drift to the side, as if recalling the event. “To be fair, he really deserved it that time. We were in line at the cafeteria and he took the last of the triple chocolate cupcakes.”  
  
Lydia’s eyes snap to his, a displeased frown reappearing on her lips.

“Don’t give me that face! He did it on purpose,” Stiles argues. “He knows how I feel about those triple chocolate cupcakes. And I heard him tell Erica once that he _doesn’t even like chocolate_. Who doesn’t like chocolate, but takes the last of the chocolate cupcakes? Hmmm? Exactly. He did it on purpose, ergo he deserved to get pooped on.”

“You’re an idiot,” Lydia declares, but Stiles knows that she agrees with him, deep down. There’s a beat of silence before she suddenly stands up straighter, the way she tends to right before she’s about to say something that usually ends up being very _unpleasant_. She shifts her gaze to the cameras, nodding at them pointedly. “Put up a silencer.”

Stiles would joke about her telling him to perform more magic before his mission, but lets it slide. There’s tension in the air; Lydia’s shoulders stiff with something unspoken. The plum seed left in his hand vanishes with a snap of his fingers, and he wills the air to become thick and sluggish, difficult for words to move through. His magic flows through his arm, warming the limb with its presence, before pouring out of his fingertips. Within an instant, the cameras shift their focus away from them, a thin see-through green bubble encasing them.

“We’re clear,” Stiles says, once he knows the magic has taken hold, blocking the cameras from hearing or seeing them.

Lydia sits on the workout mat and taps the open space next to her, keeping her back to the cameras as an extra precaution. Stiles silently follows suit.

“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.” It's a demand, not a request. 

“Of course.”

“Derek didn’t pass his psych exam.”

Stiles’ eyebrows raise, genuinely taken aback by the news. “He didn’t? But he—”

"Still got approved for the promotion, yes. Harris has taken the liberty to assign him a team without consulting my mother.” Her mother being Ms. Martin, the head honcho and daughter of the founder of SUPE. She’s also become a notorious recluse, rarely showing up in person anymore. Instead, she’s taken to using Lydia as her official voice around the organization. Stiles has quietly watched as her responsibilities increased over the past few years, Lydia’s shoulders growing heavier with the weight of those burdens.

Stiles lets the information sink in before asking, “What part did he fail?”

“Control. Temper management. And, he still blames you,” Lydia admits, apprently choosing to rip off the bandaid quickly. 

Stiles grimaces, but nods. He had expected that. He figured Derek still blamed him for Laura’s death, though he’s been holding onto a vague hope that it wouldn’t be true. So much for that.

“He’s not angry enough to kill me though, right?” Stiles questions. “He’s not going to shoot me the moment I turn my back, is he?” Lydia doesn’t respond immediately. That doesn't bode well for him.

“I don’t believe so,” is what she finally settles on, after moments of uncomfortable silence, a sour expression on her face. “Look, Stiles, you’re one of my most capable agents—”

“I caused an entire mission to go ass-up and got my commander kidnapped and killed,” Stiles refutes.

Lydia scoffs. “One bad mission doesn’t overshadow the hundreds of missions you successfully completed. You’re one of only a few magic users we have left, and you’re a damn good one. That being said, it’s not you I’m worried about. If I really thought you couldn’t handle yourself, I would've had you switched the moment I found out about you two being partnered.”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming,” Stiles almost sighs, leaning back on his hands and stretching out his legs, mentally preparing himself for another blow of troublesome news. Lydia doesn’t disappoint.

“There are two.”

“Get on with it.”

“I think we have a mole." The words leave her in a rush, as if it’s the first time she’s allowed herself to voice the thought aloud. It probably is.

“I’ve been telling you that ever since Matt fucked up my mission with Laura,” Stiles says flatly.

“He’s been cleared of those charges. And I don’t think it’s him.”

“Why not?” Why won’t anyone believe him that there’s something wrong with Matt Daehler?

“I’ve been feeding him different information, just in case, but it doesn’t match up to what’s being leaked. The hunters seem to know our plans before we put them into action. It has to be someone else.”

“Harris?” Lydia tilts her head thoughtfully.

“I’ve considered that. It’s why my mom’s not firing him. We’re going to be monitoring him more, and limiting the information he has access to.”

Stiles falls back with a sigh, his body flat against the mat. “What’s the second ‘but’?”

“I need you to keep a close eye on Derek for me.”

_That_ piece of news interests him. His ears practically perk up in curiosity and confusion. “You think he might be the mole?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But, if you’re right, and Laura was killed because the mission had been purposefully compromised, then I need someone to be keeping an eye on Derek.”

“Why him?”

“Because he inherited Laura’s Alpha status,” Lydia sighs. “He had the most to gain from her death.”

Stiles considers this information, biting back his automatic desire to come to Derek’s defense. While he understands that Derek had the most to gain from Laura’s death, there isn’t a doubt in his mind that Derek didn’t kill her. Laura adored him and Derek had always seemed at home when he was around her. They were practically inseparable.

But perhaps he’s emotionally compromised, unable to view the situation with an unbiased view. He had been a part of Laura’s team for nearly two years before her death and, during that time, they had gotten incredibly close. Stiles had considered her a best friend, their relationship on par with his and Scott’s. They worked seamlessly together, often knowing the other’s next move without having to talk, and she loved Walmart, despite his perpetual dislike of everyone.

They spent hundreds of hours together, potentially _thousands_ , and many of those hours were spent telling stories. Stiles talked about growing up at the agency, of fruitless dreams and desires he'd have if he were living Outside, of impossible scenarios and made up stories of another universe in which they were space pirates taking on the Universe together. 

Laura, however, would tell stories more grounded in reality. Memories from when she was younger and lived with her family in a large house in the woods, traditions and other things she remembered about her time in the Outside; but, most often, she told stories about Derek.

Laura was always animated when talking about her brother. She'd gesture wildly with her hands when talking about the ridiculous things he’d done, her voice going deep and silly when she'd imitate him. The stories ranged from childhood memories to recent missions, from endearing situations to embarrassing ones, from childish antics in the house in the woods to the confident man who worked hard to earn the title of Laura’s second-in-command.

It’s safe to say that Stiles harbors an embarrassingly large crush on Derek. The man is gorgeous. Those light green eyes that contrast sharply with his nearly black hair, and his wicked sense of humor, though he rarely ever uses it with Stiles. Usually Derek treats him like he’s the ‘younger sibling’s annoying best friend’ that he wants nothing to do with. Realistically, Stiles understands he can be a bit annoying, and that they'd met when he was twelve and the Hale Twins were sixteen, so he _had_ been the annoying kid once. But he’s not the annoying little kid he was at twelve years old, or the pissed off angsty teenager at fourteen. 

Even worse was that Stiles had been so excited when he and Derek were put on the same team, because maybe then Derek would be forced to finally look at him as who he was instead of who he used to be. But that never happened, because, while Derek was Laura’s second and was a part of her team, he'd only been assigned missions with Boyd and Erica while Stiles worked with Allison, Scott, and Laura. 

Occasionally, they had to team up with others outside of their respective teams. In his opinion, that’s what went wrong with that last mission. When they teamed up with Matt. If it had been Derek instead, maybe none of this would have happened.

In their last few weeks spent together, Laura had joked about being tired of the “longing expression” Stiles would ( _allegedly)_ get on his face whenever she talked about Derek. She teased about locking them in a room together until feelings were shared or setting them up on a fake blind date in the gardens, but locking the exit so they couldn't leave. A lot of her “romantic” ideas seemed to involve them physically being unable to escape each other, probably because they were really good at doing that. 

But that was before she died. Before it all went to hell.

Derek wanted nothing to do with him now.

“I’ll stay with him, but I expect an extra reward for it.”

Lydia hums in thought. “How about I reinstate Walmart’s roaming privileges?”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, that’s not a reward. I’ve been enjoying this break away from him, thanks.”

Lydia pauses, eyeing him, as if considering her options. Hesitantly, she offers, “What about a trip to the Outside?”

Stiles’ back straightens. He’s only been allowed off base once before, when he graduated from the training program three years ago. He had been granted a two week trip to the Outside as a reward for completing the program, but it never came to fruition. Just before he was set to leave, it was discovered that the Argents were experimenting on supernaturals, devising a plan that would potentially wipe out Supernatural creatures completely. Stiles and Heather had been drafted without a say or a chance to know what else was out there in the world.

Still, every year, many humans and shifters vacation off base whenever they have time, as long as they are supervised and request the time off ahead of time. But things are different for magic users. Witches are rarely allowed to leave at all, since they are too necessary to the operation to spare.

The truth is, the SUPE Agency worries their witches would not return.  It’s a rightful fear.

“Unsupervised?” Stiles prods.

Another pause before a stilted, but agreeing, nod.

“I accept your terms. No take-backsies,” Stiles says hastily, claiming the offer before it can be rescinded.   
  
Lydia doesn’t take it back. She stands, patting down her sleek black dress, as if any spec of dirt or dust would dare cling to her.

“That’s that then. We’ll work out the details later on. Hopefully, when things are less volatile.”   
  
She steps through the doors without looking back, leaving an astonished Stiles behind.

o0o0o0o

Stiles feels like he’s floating as he makes his way to his room. A real trip to the Outside! He’ll have to come up with a comprehensive list of things to do and places to see. He won’t want to waste a second of it, especially when he may not get the chance again.

With the swipe of his ID and a swift type of his passcode, the door to his room slides open. Stiles blinks at the chaos inside.

The room is filled with unnaturally black, smokeless flames. The flames vary in size, fluctuating between waist height and bursting upwards, brushing tenderly against the unblemished ceiling. 

In the middle of the room, surrounded by the flames is a completely black human-like figure tied to an equally black pole that juts out of the deep green carpet. There are no details on its face or body, not a stitch of clothing. It's completely black, like a 3D silhouette of a person that’s come to life— and then was tied to a pole in the middle of Stiles’ room and set on fire.

Stiles blinks again and that’s when he realizes that the figure is screaming in agony, the black flames closing in until they engulf the shadow-person.

“Well, that’s morbid,” Stiles says.

He steps past the threshold and closes the door behind him. It’s probably best that he tries not to piss off his neighbors more than he likely already has, by keeping the door open these past few moments.

Stiles kicks off his shoes, watching them miss the cardboard box by his door. He strides past the figure and plops down in the spinny chair at his desk, swiveling to face the shrieking figure. It looks like a scene that would have happened in Salem during the witch hunts.

Interesting.

“Let me guess, I’m supposed to be the witch in this scenario?” Stiles says breezily. The figure’s tortured screams cut off the moment it realizes Stiles has started speaking, as if desperately wanting to hear what he thought of the scene. 

“The screaming is an okay touch, a little overused, but it’s your signature thing— I get that. But if you could learn to mimic human voices, it'd be great. Imagine if there were a bystander off to the side yelling, ‘burn the witch!’ Great, right? Just my humble opinion.” Stiles pauses. “You’re getting more subtle though. I like it.” 

It’s the honest truth. Walmart has been getting more subtle. It was only a few months ago that the familiar had welcomed him home with a vision of his own headless corpse covered in stab marks on his bed.

This is an improvement.

He perches his sock-covered feet on the wooden desk and searches the drawers for a textbook on world traveling. Aha! Found one. The mirror hanging on the wall shows the flames and figure morphing in the background. Black shadows hover in the air, swirling together and forming a realistic, and incredibly _familiar_ , crow.

Stiles lightly rocks side to side in the chair, attention returning to the thick book in his lap. He cracks it open. It’s then that he notices the hole in the toe of his sock. He leans forward, inspecting it briefly before loudly asking, “Have you been playing with my socks again?”

When he shoots an accusing look at the bird, Walmart stares back innocently from his perch on the bed frame. His tiny head tilts like he can't comprehend the question. Which is such bullshit. Stiles knows well enough by now that the crow understands english. Perhaps not all, but _some_.

However, he also knows that he has to let the small stuff go or he’ll never have a chance at winning the bigger battles with the bird. He's notoriously stubborn.

“I have a mission tomorrow at five AM. Want to help me plan my trip to the Outside? We can stay up past midnight until I realize how little time I have left to sleep and hate myself. Just like the old days.”

Walmart crows, wings flapping in either agitation or agreement, Stiles isn’t quite sure. He’s going to assume it means agreement.

“Cool. Where should I start? East Coast or West Coast?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commissioned [Geeky-Sova](http://geeky-sova.tumblr.com) to draw Stiles and Walmart for this story. I was blown away by the final piece!
> 
> [Reblog Sova's art here](http://teenshmolf.tumblr.com/post/179359978522/witch-stiles-stilinski-and-his-crow-familiar) and let them know how much you love it in the tags!
> 
> Please let me know if any links are broken.


	2. Alpha

Stiles is exhausted. His eyes throb, protesting the brightness of the outdoors coming in through the windows. A sudden bump sends him flying and his hands brace against the van’s roof to avoid bashing his head against it. After thirty minutes of this, he’s pretty sure the tattered seatbelt around him is for show instead of safety.

Derek sits across from him, unaffected by the bumps and potholes. He’s been staring silently out the windshield throughout the whole ride and Stiles is fairly certain it isn’t because he’s interested in the van driver’s driving abilities.

He’s still as muscular and unfairly handsome as ever. His dark stubble has grown into an actual beard, which somehow makes him look more refined than when he's freshly shaven.

Stiles’ knee bounces as he fights the urge to break the silence. Derek had already been in the van when Stiles showed up promptly at five AM. Cold green eyes had simply passed over him as Derek remained silent, unwilling to acknowledge the awkwardly uttered, _“morning, partner!”_

It’s been two and a half hours and Derek still hasn’t spoken to him nor spared him a glance. This is ridiculous. They are partners! They can’t complete a mission, even one this simple, without communicating at all.

Fuck it, he’s going to try again.

“Should we discuss strategies?” Stiles winces at the way his voice cracks when Derek's head turns.

Silence.   
  
Derek eyes him with blatant disinterest.

“Yeah, I know, this is an easy recon mission, but it’s important to discuss potential complications that may happen and—”

“No,” is all he gets. One word. One single word. But it’s enough to make his heart speed up. 

He got Derek to respond. Sure, it's only a word, and an angry one at that, but it's something. He can work with _something_.

“Why, uh, why not?” 

Derek turns away.

“Or, y’know, I can start. That’s fine. You can just sit there and listen.” Stiles leans forward, pretending the cold shoulder doesn’t bother him. Because it doesn’t. Not even a little bit. The heaviness in his chest is just heartburn.

“My concern is that there might be more security than we’re expecting. Or, any security at all really, since it’s supposedly abandoned. If it isn't, I think—”

“Let me make something clear to you, _partner_ ,” Derek starts, tone cold but emotionless. “If anything goes wrong—  _anything at all_ that might involve you needing my help — it’s not going to happen. Do you understand me?”

Stiles swallows thickly, sitting back and putting space between them. He knows Derek is serious, he doesn’t need supernatural abilities to hear the sincerity in his words or see it reflected in his hostile expression.

“But—”

“If you fall behind, I’m leaving you there. If you get injured, I will let you bleed out. If you, even for a split second, point your weapon or your magic in my direction, I will put a bullet in your head and tell Lydia it was self defense,” Derek spits venomously.

Never, in the nine years of them having known each other, has Derek spoken to him like this. When Stiles pissed him off, Derek would simply drop his fangs and snap at him to _"go away"_ or _"shut up"._  Nothing like this unfettered animosity or promise of violence.

Perhaps, for the first time since his fatal mission with Laura, he's truly realizing how much Derek despises him.

This is their relationship now. This is it.   
  
Derek will never forgive him for Laura's death. Ever.

The blood drains from Stiles' face, a really uncomfortable sensation he’s never experienced before and never wants to experience again. It leaves him feeling oddly unmoored and lightheaded.

“Lydia would pull the tapes and Danny is—”

Derek doesn’t have to say anything for Stiles to cut himself off. The sight of Derek smiling at him is enough to shock him into silence. Since the Hale twins’ arrival at the SUPE agency nine years ago, he had imagined many times what it would feel like to finally have the man’s smile directed at him.

What he'd imagined was nothing like this.

He had never, not once, imagined that he’d feel this _terrified_.

“Danny has been my Tech for years,” Derek says slowly, as if talking down to a child. “Which one of us do you think he’s loyal to?”

“There will still be recordings.” Stiles’ voice is quiet, but it sounds like he’s shouting in the tense silence of the van.

The vehicle begins to decelerate, the windows behind Derek revealing a dense cluster of trees surrounding them. They've arrived at their destination.

“That reminds me. Danny mentioned something about your CommUnit having issues. Apparently, it occasionally stops working. No video or voice recording, and no connection to the Tech Tower.” Off Stiles’ gobsmacked look, he lets out a fake sigh and laments, “It’s a shame we didn’t realize it was defective until it was too late.”

Stiles startles when the van doors bang open, the gruff face of the driver barking at them to get out. Derek exits first, smoothly stepping out of the van and pressing the CommUnit in his ear to activate.

“At the drop off point. You there, Danny?” 

Stiles stumbles out less gracefully, having underestimated the drop to the ground. He waves off the driver’s unimpressed stare and presses a hand to the CommUnit in his ear.

_“For you, Derek? Always,”_ Danny responds, voice warm in Stiles’ ear as if he were standing right next to him. The smugness in his voice is practically palpable. 

“Great,” Stiles says with false cheer, able to read between the lines. “Let’s get this over with then, shall we?”

 

The trek through the woods is silent other than Danny’s voice crackling through the CommUnit to give occasional directions. It’s an approximate two-mile walk— a fairly quick distance to cover, though Derek’s werewolf abilities allow him to be far less affected by the heat, humidity, and hills than Stiles. An ability that Stiles is starting to resent more and more the further they get into the forest.

Stiles smacks another mosquito as it lands on his sweat-slick arm. He grimaces at the small splatter of red on his hand and forearm, mumbling a soft, _“ew, ew, ew”_ as he wipes both on his shirt. 

Derek lets out an annoyed huff, but continues walking instead of verbalizing his thoughts. Laura had warned Stiles before that her brother had a tendency to go nonverbal when he was uncomfortable. Or unhappy. Or annoyed. Or, basically any emotion other than happy. 

“Tarzan Derek” is what she had called it.

_“Me, Derek. You, Stiles,” Laura had said, brows furrowed and voice deep in a ridiculous imitation of her brother. Her expression relaxed and she moved closer, her voice back to normal as she explained, “That is exactly how your first date will go. He’s basically a caveman, so you’ll have to talk in his general direction until he gives in, falls in love with you, and asks you to have his children.”_

_Stiles had tripped on the stairs leading up to their hotel room, eyes wide and scandalized._ _“I can’t actually have his children, can I? That’s not a thing, is it? Please tell me it’s not a thing. Laura, why are you laughing at me? I’m having a crisis here! I don’t have good child-bearing hips! Or a womb, for that matter.”_

_Laura had doubled over, snorting unflatteringly in between bouts of hysterical laughter. She eventually was able to collect herself enough to point a finger in his direction._

_“Your face… Please, please, ask him that question. I beg of you. It will make my life,” Laura cackled._

“Stiles!” Derek barks. Stiles jumps, blinking away the memory and focusing on where Derek is glaring down at him from the top of the medium-sized hill. 

“I’m coming, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Stiles grumbles, starting up the steep incline.  Derek grunts in annoyance and carries on.

Only twenty minutes have passed, but Stiles has categorized Derek’s grunts and huffs into 3 different reactions: ‘annoyed’, ‘very slightly amused but way more annoyed’, and ‘I might kill you if you keep talking’. He assumes there’s a 4th huff— the ever elusive ‘actually amused’ huff— but he has yet to hear that one. He has his fingers crossed that he might experience it one day, but until then, it’ll be considered his ‘White Whale’ of Derek’s reactions.

“Have you guys considered implementing codenames?” Stiles asks. He’s been giving it a lot of thought over the past half-mile, since he’s had nothing but silence to work with and his thoughts tend to go to strange places when left unchecked. It’s why he and Laura had gotten along so well. She was good at talking and keeping his mind busy. 

When he’s met with nothing but stony silence, he continues, “I ran it by Lydia before and she wasn’t too keen on the idea, but I think it'd be cool.”

Still no response.

“I’ve been thinking of something along the lines of ‘007’ for myself. Derek could be ‘grumpy’ or maybe ‘bashful’? I’m not sure which one is more fitting, since we haven’t reached that level of friendship yet, but we can discuss it if there’s a preference. And I think Danny should be ‘daddy’.”

Danny lets out a strangled noise. _“Why am I ‘daddy’?”_

“You're basically responsible for watching over us, giving us advice, and generally making sure we don’t get ourselves killed. I think it’s pretty fitting.” 

_“I think it’s pretty weird,”_ Danny shoots back.

“It’s only weird if you make it weird, daddy,” Stiles replies. He bites down on his lip to stifle a grin when Danny laughs.

It’s not Derek’s huff of amusement, but it still feels like a win. He’ll take what he can get.

After the hill, it doesn’t take long for them to reach the small concrete square in the middle of the woods, and it’s not sketchy at all. Not one bit. Derek reaches for the knob on the square's rusty metal door. As soon as his fingers make contact, a loud blaring _CAW_ breaks through the trees.

They both leap back in surprise, their heads swinging towards where the sound came from. High up in the trees, a black shadow-man jumps from a branch. The body free-falls for a second or two, time seemingly slowing down as they watch the man spread his arms and legs, before smashing violently into the forest floor, limbs eschew at painful angles.

“That’s just great. I’m sure nobody heard that,” Derek grumbles under his breath, shooting an accusing look at Stiles, judgemental eyebrows radiating  _'can’t you control your child?'_

“At least the building’s abandoned?” Stiles weakly tries. It doesn’t appear to make Derek feel better.

_“What the hell was that?”_  

“Stiles’ suicidal bird,” Derek growls.

“He’s not suicidal,” Stiles argues. 

A low, agonized groan comes from the body, muscles twitching like it's attempting to get back up, but can't. 

“Would you stop that,” Stiles scolds.

The groaning stops, but the head snaps up at a 90 degree angle, bones crunching from the sharp, unnatural position. The head tilts slightly like a puppy.

“No antics on missions, remember? We had an agreement."

Stiles swears and scrambles towards the door when he realizes Derek’s gone on ahead. The hallway’s damp and grimy, the only light coming from the keychain flashlight he pulled from his pocket. It’s not difficult to find Derek; there's another light further ahead. He catches up quickly, though he’s breathing heavier than he’d like to be. Obviously, he needs to spend more time on the treadmill.

_“That was disturbing,”_ Danny says.  _“Does that happen often?”_

Stiles’ shoulders droop at the continued conversation. He knows Danny has never met Walmart before— like most Techs, Danny resides in the far half of the compound— but he hates explaining or defending Walmart’s behavior. Even so, he can’t be silent when he hears others talking about his familiar rudely.

“Unfortunately,” Derek says.

“It’s his preferred method of communication,” Stiles mumbles, embarrassed by the negative attention.

_“Leaping to his death is his ‘preferred method of communication’?”_ Danny asks in disbelief.

“Sometimes he hangs himself,” Derek says, “and he drowned himself in the pool once or twice.”

“Twice. I didn’t realize you’ve been paying attention,” Stiles says. 

He regrets wishing Derek would talk more. If he could go back to communicating through grunts and huffs, that would be great.

“It’s hard to miss when he does it everywhere. Oh, and he also shot himself in the head. They had to block off the hallway to the dorms since he refused to move for the rest of the day,” Derek says, clearly unamused at the memory.

“I’m pretty sure that was in protest of the new bird-feeder Lydia put up in the gardens. He gets socially anxious and was upset over the potential crowds,” Stiles says defensively.

“I had to sleep in the gym because I couldn’t get to my room,” Derek states, frustration evident. “Shall I continue?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Stiles grumbles. “Can we just chalk it up to him having his quirks and move on?”

“Repeatedly committing suicide in various ways is not a ‘quirk’,” Derek says.

“It’s not suicide if he’s taking the form of other people,” Stiles refutes, though he knows it’s a weak argument. “And it’s not permanent.”

_“Now you’re just reaching,”_ Danny chimes in, and then, with more attention, _“Guys, the entrance is on your left.”_

They both halt their steps, shining their lights on the gray door. It’s more secure than the door above ground. A metal device hangs beside it for swiping an ID and a numerical keypad below it to type in a code. At the top of it, a little light blinks red.

 _ “This place has been abandoned for a few weeks now,”  _ Danny says. There’s a faint sound of keys tapping in the background as he speaks. _ “You don't have to worry about noise. And I have the codes to all the security cameras and doors, so…”  _ A simple chime sounds and the light changes to green. _ “…begin at your leisure.” _

Derek pulls the door open. Their mission begins.

 

Inside isn’t what Stiles expected. Every sound echoes off pale blue hallway walls as they traipse through. The building is eerily vacant. Rooms are decorated with the bare minimum amount of furniture possible, no evidence that anything nefarious had happened here.

“They were making weapons here?” Stiles questions. This place reminds him of post-apocalyptic movies with eerily quiet buildings that had clearly once been occupied.

_ “Weapons, poisons…”  _ Stiles opens another door and Danny’s voice continues, _ “...and running experiments.” _

This room is dreary compared to the others. The walls and floor are painted a solid white like the agency's. Rows of glass tanks stand tall as the ceiling and masks dangle inside despite the absence of liquids and creatures. They pass by the empty tanks, their reflections distorting on the glass. 

As they stop at the last one, waiting for Danny to open the next door, the desire to touch it is almost overwhelming.

“Don’t,” Derek barks. Stiles pulls his fingers back, facing Derek with a questioning gaze. “Don’t touch anything, you idiot. We’re in a hunter’s den.” Stiles bites down on the urge to remind him that it’s an _abandoned_ hunter’s den, but decides against it.

The next door opens with a _whoosh_ , revealing a well-stocked library. Stiles tunes out as Derek and Danny discuss the building's layout. He steps closer to examine the expansive variety of books that fill the shelves. He peruses the titles, recognizing a few. The collection covers a wide range of magic. Blood magic, rituals ranging from requests for blessings to ultimate sacrifices, basic spells and curses, dark magic, and so on.

“Why would hunters need spell-books?” he asks. Derek and Danny stop talking. 

Derek steps up beside him and gazes at the books with furrowed brows.

“I can’t read the titles. What language is that?” he questions.

“It’s the Old Language,” Stiles replies.

“Which is…” 

_“An old language,”_ Danny unhelpfully supplies. 

Stiles’ lips quirk as Derek’s annoyed huff makes a return.

“It’s the language of dead witches,” Stiles answers. 

“As opposed to the language of living witches?” Derek asks, bemused.

_“The language of living witches is called ‘gossip’ and it’s very different, Derek,”_ Danny says, continuing to be unhelpful. Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles forces down a smile.

He squanders the feeling of amusement, aware that he needs to focus.

Something, or some _one_ , is calling out to him. It’s not a sound, but a feeling, a tug in his chest that pulls at him until he steps closer. It’s then that he notices something off about the bookshelf, something different about this room in particular.

The lack of dust.

He touches one of the titles, ignoring Derek’s sound of protest. He traces the black script on the binding of the thickest book. The title, written in an elegant script reads:

 

_**Witchcraft for a Better Tomorrow** _

 

The title glows a bright and shimmering gold, even after he’s withdrawn his touch. Derek steps back, muttering to Danny. The iridescent letters change shape, remaining bright even as they settle along the book's spine. The golden script now reads:

 

_ **And by these three scourges a third of the children of men were killed:** _

_ **by the fire, by the brimstone and by the smoke that proceeded from their mouths.*** _

 

 _ “What does it say? I don’t speak dead witch,” _ Danny says.

“It’s a warning,” Stiles interprets. That’s the best guess he has. 

“About what?” Derek snaps impatiently.

“I don’t know. The old ones like to be vague,” Stiles says. “It’s my fault. I should’ve known better than to pick a book written by a ‘Stedelen’. That name screams ‘murdered in Sweden in the late 1300’s’.”

_“That’s oddly specific.”_  

Stiles searches the stacks for a different name, spotting one that practically sings to him. 

“Ah. Wilmot, you sound like a classy lady,” he declares. 

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch together as if the individual brows want to get close and whisper about Stiles’ poor decisions. “How is ‘Wilmot’ better than ‘Stedelen'?”

Stiles ignores the critique. “What do you have for me?” he asks Wilmot, tracing the title that says, _‘Simple Spells’_. 

_“In simple English, if possible,”_ Danny adds.

Wilmot’s title flickers to life, the letters morphing into a hastily written:

 

I SUGGEST YOU RUN

 

Within seconds, the shining light spreads to the other books like a wave, the titles all shimmering gold and, in many different handwritings, repeating:

 

GET OUT

 

_ HIDE _

 

RUN

 

**LEAVE**

  
****

“Well, that all seems pretty clear to me,” Stiles says, his palms sweating. “You really should have led with that.”

_ “What?” _

“They suggest we run.”

_“But you’re not moving.”_  

“I’m pretty sure it’s too late,” Stiles says.

_ “How sure?” _

Stiles eyes the messages as they rearrange once more. Unlike the varying messages moments before, each book glows alight with the same message:

 

IT HAS BEGUN

 

_ IT HAS BEGUN _

 

** IT HAS BEGUN **

 

I T   H A S   B E G U N.

 

 

“Fairly certain,” Stiles affirms weakly.

There’s a beat of tense silence while they decide what to do. Do they abandon the mission on the _very trustworthy_ suggestion of _incredibly knowledgeable_ hundreds-of-years-old-witches despite there having been no sign thus far of anyone else being in the building or do they continue on with the mission and hope for the best? 

Basically, Stiles has already made his decision. 

Unfortunately, the choice is taken away when the door opens and reveals a beady-eyed Walmart. The crow casually hops forward a few steps. He tilts his head and flaps his wings, getting out of the way as a creature barrels into the doorframe.

It’s a woman, although barely human. Her fangs and claws are extended, drool and white foam at her mouth and sticking to the black-brown fur on her cheeks that matches the color of her long hair. Her eyes glow a deep, dangerous red. 

An alpha werewolf.

Well, fuck.  


He needs to look into putting Walmart on a leash.

_ “Where did she come from?”  _ Danny yells. _ “None of the security cameras showed anyone in the building!” _

“Cora?” Derek calls out, his voice breaking on the name. His expression is broken open with confusion and hurt, vulnerable in a way Stiles hasn’t seen since Laura’s death was announced.

The woman, Cora, reacts to the name, her gaze landing on Derek as she growls. It’s a deep, subvocal sound with no trace of humanity in it.  Stiles isn’t an expert on werewolves, but he’s worked with enough of them to know that isn’t a friendly sound.

Derek doesn’t seem to be care though, since he steps forward and says, “Cora, it’s me. Derek. Your brother. Do you remember me?” 

And the sound of Derek begging his sister to recognize him breaks Stiles’ heart. He notices the dried blood smeared on her arms, wolfsbane infused metal cuffs around her wrists. Broken off chains dangle from the metal, as if she’d escaped being chained to a wall.

How long has she been here?

She launches herself at Derek with a ferocious sound. Stiles blocks her with a barrier spell that sends her flying back, knowing Derek likely isn’t in the best place of mind to fight off his own sister. As if hearing his thoughts and determined to prove him wrong, Derek snarls back and half-shifts so that his fangs and claws are out.

“Let me handle this, Derek,” Stiles instructs.

“I’m not going to let you hurt her,” Derek snaps, baring his sharpened teeth. Stiles’ heart trips over the unspoken meaning behind his words. _I’m not going to let you kill another sister of mine._ “She’s my pack. My responsibility.”

Cora launches at Derek again, her claws connecting with his arms as they collide. They roll with her momentum, scrabbling on the floor, multiple pained yelps coming from them both. Cora scrambles away, her shirt torn and bloody in places, blood dripping from her teeth. Derek shifts to his feet, although noticeably slower than she had. 

“Dude, you’re not going to be able to hurt your sister. Let me help,” Stiles insists.

“Would you shut up?” Derek growls at him, turning his head.

_“Derek!”_ Danny warns. 

It’s too late. The distraction allows Cora to rush forward, her kick aimed at Derek’s ribs landing before he can counter it. Stiles winces as Derek wheezes from the impact, getting tossed into the wall from the force of it.

“I really think I should help, Derek,” Stiles says pointedly. 

Cora’s attention turns to him and he straightens, determined not to be caught off guard.

_ “Stiles, can you—”  _

“Shut up, Danny. I need to focus,” Stiles demands.

Cora roars and charges, tackling him easily as Stiles simultaneously reaches out. She glares down at him, her eyes burning an angry red, and a string of drool slides down, creating a thin trail to his shirt. She’s vibrating from the force of her own guttural growls, her lips curled up in a snarl. Her mind is clearly gone, leaving her completely inhuman. She pushes forward, jaw snapping, but unable to reach him. His palms cup the sides of her face, holding her back.

He envisions a cage. Silver bars infused with mountain ash, the enclosure surrounding a large, wolf with fiercely red eyes and drool dripping from the corners of its mouth. But more importantly, he believes that it exists. Believes that, inside those bars, the wolf is trapped and sealed away.

Cora whines as the green glow underneath the palm of his hands becomes stronger, light escaping through any space between the skin on his hands and her face. The furry sideburns on her cheeks fade away, her fangs and claws receding though her red eyes remain. She slumps in his hold, crashing to the ground next to him. She whines and twitches, reaching for him as if still trying to attack. 

Stiles stands over her and, with a snap of his fingers, opens his palm to reveal a small pile of purple powder. He leans in and blows through puckered lips. The powder falls, showering her in glittery purple dust.

Danny’s voice returns in his ear. _“Is that—”_

“Wolfsbane,” Stiles answers. 

_“How did you get her to change back?”_ Danny asks, tone undeniably impressed.

“I blocked her from being able to access that part of her. The animal part,” Stiles explains. “She’s still feral though, so she’ll be just as pleasant when she wakes up.” 

_“I didn’t know you could do that,”_ Danny admits.

“Yeah, well, I’m not as useless as everyone likes to think,” Stiles mumbles. 

He knows what people think of him: that he’s a devil worshiper, a useless witch who couldn’t stop his partner from being killed, or a traitor who will sabotage missions for the hell of it—if not all of those things. The truth of it is, before Laura’s death, he'd been regarded highly by his superiors and teammates as a competent and skilled agent. Among his other peers at SUPE, however, he's to be avoided. They think he’s demonic and have thought so since he was four years old and was left at the doorstep of the agency. He hadn’t known, at that time, that they could look down on him more than they already did.

What a shocking revelation that had been.

He turns to the crow huddled safely in the corner of the room furthest from the action. “You and I are going to have a talk later about appropriate behavior while on missions.”

Walmart averts his gaze and picks at his feathers with his beak.

“Don’t give me that, you little freeloader,” Stiles snaps, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction. “I know you. You did that shit on purpose. So, what—you’re too good to help out and earn your keep now? You have to be part of the problem instead?”

_“Derek? Are you okay?”_ Danny asks, capturing Stiles’ attention. His partner is relatively uninjured, but leaning heavily against the wall.

“Derek?” Stiles prompts when Derek doesn’t reply.

“I can’t,” Derek says, gritting the words out through his clenched teeth.

“Can’t what?” Stiles asks.

“Move,” is all that's given before Derek collapses.

_“Oh shit,”_ Danny says, vocalizing Stiles’ sentiments exactly.

Stiles kneels down next to Cora, grabbing and inspecting her hand. Her nails shine with a sticky substance, clear with a slightly yellow tint.

Stiles exhales sharply through his nose and wipes a hand over his face. “Her nails are coated in kanima venom. He’s gonna be paralyzed for a while.”

_“Someone must have put that on her,”_ Danny says. She isn't aware enough to have been able to do that herself.

“Recently,” Stiles adds.

_ “Recently,”  _ Danny agrees. _  “You’re not alone in the building then.” _

“Apparently not,” Stiles says. He turns to Walmart with a raised brow. “You going to be helpful now or what?”

Walmart, it seems, has decided to be cooperative. He morphs into a long piece of black rope while Stiles drags Cora’s limp body next to Derek’s. Derek, watching the scene unfold from his place on the ground, asks, “Did your bird just turn into rope?”

“Yes, he did,” Stiles responds as he pushes Derek and his sister into identical sitting positions, adjusting them until they’re pressed back to back. It's not an easy feat considering they're both essentially dead weight.

“Why,” Derek grinds out, looking like he knows the answer and doesn’t like it, but wants confirmation that it is, in fact, what is about to happen.

“Because he can be whatever he wants to be, Derek. It’s the twenty-first century and I’m not going to rain on his parade. He can be a piece of rope if that’s his life ambition.” Stiles steps back, hands on his hips as he observes his handiwork.

Not too shabby.

Rope-Walmart wiggles onto Stiles’ foot, allowing himself to be picked up and wrapped securely around the two werewolves. 

“But, also, because levitating two objects at once takes a lot of energy and coordination, and I can’t afford to waste either of those right now. Since I’m the only one capable of getting us safely out of here and all.”

“I told you, if you use your magic on me—”

“You’d rip my throat out with your teeth. Or was it that you’d shoot me with your gun? It was some form of you maiming me. I honestly can’t keep track of all the threats I get. But, here’s the thing: either you potentially kill me over something _stupid_ when we make it back to base, or we sit here and wait for you to heal and all three of us die when whoever else is here finds us.” He lets that sink in for a second. “I’m going with the ‘potentially making it out of here alive’ option. But your input has been noted.”

Derek looks like he’s contemplating all the ways he’s going to murder Stiles later on, but obligingly remains silent. 

Naturally, because he doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone, Stiles continues,  “Also, not to say ‘I told you so’, but this is why we’re supposed to discuss potential complications before missions."

_“Oh my god,”_ Danny sighs.

“Because the possibility of stumbling upon my rabid younger sister, who I thought was dead for the past nine years, was one of your hypothetical complications?” Derek argues.

“Hypothetically, it could've been. We’ll never know, now will we?” Stiles counters.

“ _Hypothetically_ , you’re full of shit,” Derek retorts. It’s a comeback a child would use, but he snarls it with such seriousness that it might be the best thing Stiles has heard in a while.

He can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him, the amused sound seemingly startling Derek as much as it does Stiles. Derek eyes him with confusion, his anger dampened by the shock of Stiles’ unexpected reaction.

_“Guys, can we please start moving?”_  

Stiles obligingly levitates the werewolves, biting his lip to keep further laughter at bay. Derek makes it incredibly difficult with his queasy expression, obviously uncomfortable being floated around with no control over where he’s going.

He tries to make it a relatively easy trip, because he’s not vindictive or seeking revenge for Derek's poor attitude.  But, if he accidentally bumps them into a few doorways and walls, desks and table tops, chairs, and the occasional ceiling, well… nobody can prove it was anything more than him being a tad clumsy.

 

After fifteen minutes of rooms and hallways leading to dead end after dead end, they reach the last hallway. Only a few rooms are left, and Danny suspects at least one of them will have something worth bringing back to base. Stiles hopes he’s right, because he’s going to be pissed if they leave this mission with nothing. 

Except for Cora. But Stiles isn’t counting her, because, quite honestly, she’s not his favorite person right now.

The next door opens to a room that appears oddly similar to the library, though the shelves are lined with vials and tubes instead of books. They seem to be filled with various powders, liquids, and colors. The possibilities are endless: potential toxins, poisons, potions, antidotes, et cetera.   
  
The far side of the room is decorated with guns, daggers, grenades, explosives, and other various weaponry with intricate carvings and protections.

Stiles moves towards the wall of weapons, ensuring Danny gets a good view through the lens on his CommUnit. His CommUnit hasn’t ‘malfunctioned’ once yet, which hopefully means he’s being a better agent than they'd anticipated.

He shifts over to the shelves, closely examining those as well for the tapes.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, the possibilities within these bottles are endless.

_ “It’s dangerous is what it is,”  _ Danny cautions. Then, _ “Oh, shit.” _

“‘Oh, shit’? Why ‘oh, shit’?” Stiles questions, not liking the note of panic in Danny’s voice.

_“The doors aren’t responding,”_ Danny says.

“Okay…” 

_ “ **None** of the doors are responding,”  _ he emphasizes. _ “They won’t close and they won’t open either. They’re frozen.” _

Stiles eyes the now stuck-open entrance. It’s the only way in and out of this room, and Danny had been shutting every door as they passed through them... which means they're stuck in this room and its connected hallway.

“That’s not good,” Stiles says smartly.

_“It’s not good,”_ Danny confirms gravely.

“Whoever’s here will be coming towards us then,” Derek says, still tied to Cora but resting safely on the ground. It would’ve been hilarious to keep them floating, bouncing them between the floor and the ceiling, but Stiles had decided to be professional and not waste his magic. “They’re probably on their way. We need to think of something.” 

_“How’s your paralysis?”_  

“I can move my toes, but only a little. I think I’ll be okay to fight in about thirty minutes or so,” Derek answers.

_“I doubt we have five minutes,”_ Danny says forlornly. 

Stiles whistles sharply. Walmart unties himself from Derek and Cora, who both topple over without the support, and zips over to Stiles. The familiar morphs into a black satchel draped across Stiles’ shoulder.

“You need to keep these safe, you got it?” Stiles instructs, tone serious as he grabs handfuls of vials and jars and stashes them in the satchel.

“Stiles, what are you doing? We need to come up with a plan,” Derek criticizes from the ground.

“What we need to do is complete our mission, which is what I am doing,” Stiles says, continuing to shove items in the bag.

“What use are those if we’re dead and can’t deliver them?” Derek refutes.

Stiles stops his frantic stashing to shoot him an unimpressed look. He throws his arms up in disbelief.

“ _Seriously?_ I mean, not to brag, but were you not here earlier when I knocked out a feral alpha with nothing but a touch? I’m a thin, squishy barrier of skin surrounding a gigantic amount of magic and you’re acting like we’re two seconds away from dying. It’s honestly insulting.” 

For a moment, he gets to appreciate the stunned expression on Derek’s face, but then a handful of guards run into the room, their bodies decked out in protective gear and guns raised. 

Stiles snaps his fingers and encases Derek, Cora, and himself in a large, shimmering green dome. His hands burn harshly from the strength of the magic. It hurts like he'd pressed them against a heated stovetop, but he puts the pain aside. Bullets ricochet off the magical barrier, a few of them bouncing back and striking guards. One guard is hit in the neck. Blood spurts out and splashes the barrier with red. He attempts to stop the bleeding, but passes out from blood loss surprisingly quickly. The other two guards that had been struck hit the ground like dead weights. They must've been hit in the head or heart.

“Oh man, that’s never actually happened before!” Stiles says gleefully. “It really is like the movies.”

“Are you happy about that?” Derek asks, astounded.

“Are you _unhappy_ about that?” Stiles asks, equally astounded. “In case you missed it, those guys on the opposite side of this barrier want us dead. So, yeah, I’m _happy_. I’m even happier that neck-shot looked like an incredibly painful death.”

“You shouldn’t be excited over anyone dying,” Derek points out with a bothered expression. “It makes you seem…” He trails off, but Stiles knows the end of that sentence. He’s heard it enough times.

“Demonic. So I’ve been told.”

Seventeen years he's heard variations of that word, but the sentiment has always remained the same. To others, he's a monster, a demon through-and-through and always would be.

At some point, he stopped fighting against that idea, stopped arguing that he was better than they thought. No matter what he did or why he did it, they would consider him a monster anyway. 

It took him a long time to realize the agency and his peers  _wanted_ him to be a monster. They wanted him to kill, to slaughter, to maim — so that, when it was over, they would be safe without any blood on their hands. 

They wanted him to be a monster, so a monster he became.

Stiles kneels on the ground, glancing up to see the two remaining guards standing there, watching. Waiting for him to slip up. 

“I swear, I get no credit for the shit I do,” Stiles grumbles, returning his attention to his task. He dumps the contents of his bag on the floor, jars and tubes spilling out and rolling across the floor. “Do any of these look like something that can fix Derek?”

_“Turn the labels towards the camera and get closer,”_ Danny instructs. Stiles does, hastily adjusting the vials and jars. " _You’ll want something that looks opaque, like kanima venom, but slightly more yellowish. The yellow tint is due to a substance that acts like a sponge. If there's enough of it, it can absorb the venom and block its effects,”_ Danny states.

Stiles finds three vials that match that description, none of their labels giving anything away about their contents.

“Eenie-meenie-miney-mo?” he jokes, though it sounds flat even to his own ears.

_“Try the one on the right,”_ Danny suggests.

Stiles opens the vial and knee-walks his way over to Derek. He hooks a hand under Derek’s chin and thumbs his bottom lip, trying not to think about how soft and plump it is as he tips the vial.   
  
“This would be kind of a sexy moment if you didn’t hate me,” he babbles nervously.

“This would be ‘kind of a sexy moment’ if it were literally anyone but you,” Derek plainly states. 

Ouch. That one hurt the pride a little bit. Stiles safely restrained Derek's sister and encased them in a bulletproof barrier, but is he even a little bit impressed or grateful? Nope. 

“I don’t think it’s doing anything,” Stiles says to Danny, observing no change in Derek.

_“Try another one,”_ Danny instructs.

“Which one?”

_“There’re two. Just pick one,”_ Danny says, exasperated. 

“These won’t harm him will they?”

_“Hopefully, no,”_ Danny replies. Stiles wishes he’d lied.

“Fuck. No pressure, then.” Stiles sighs, grabbing another vial and bringing it to Derek’s mouth again. Derek’s eyes pinch shut in pain this time, the effects instantaneous. Whatever they may be.

“Derek, you okay? Derek? Hey, look at me.” Stiles holds Derek’s face as he groans in pain. Past Derek, the barrier flickers warningly.

_“Stiles!”_ Danny gasps, voice holding a note of panic. He’d seen it too.

“It’s fine, I’ve got this under control,” Stiles says, though the currently-being-branded-with-a-hot-iron feeling has spread from his fingers to his shoulders and sweat pools at his lower back from the effort of maintaining the barrier.

“That was a lie,” Derek says on a groan, but his hand moves, landing on Stiles’ thigh.

“Why, Grumpy, is that the antidote working or are you happy to see me?” Stiles jokes, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously. The sharp pricks of pain in his thigh make him cry out, Derek’s claws having dug in in painful retribution. “It’s the antidote working. Got it. Message received.”

The barrier flickers again, this time more violently, completely disappearing for a split second before returning. Stiles eyes it with fear, the two guards smirking and waiting patiently on the other side.

“So, Danny, about that exit plan…”

_“The exits are still sealed. You’ll have to fight your way through,”_ Danny informs.

“Any idea how many more guards there might be?” Stiles asks. He might make it through these two with the rest of his energy, but he’s not sure how many more he can take on.

_“I don’t know. The security cameras were rigged somehow, I don’t know what happened. I had no idea anyone was in here until Cora showed up,”_ Danny says, sounding frazzled.

Stiles glances around, weighing his options. 

Option 1: He could fight his way through here, potentially drawing more guards towards them. 

Option 2: They could wait and see how long the barrier holds, and if Derek can move in that time. But that would leave Stiles with no energy to fight off these guards if Derek doesn’t recover fast enough.

Or option 3: He can make a new exit.

“I have an idea,” Stiles announces with more confidence than he feels.

_“Okay,”_ Danny says.

“It isn’t a good one.” 

_ “Is it ever?” _

Stiles laughs. “Fuck you, I have good ideas.” 

He shoves a hand in Derek’s boots, ignoring the half-assed sound of protest. His fingers curl around a small device attached to the inside of the top of the boot and pull it out. It’s a black circular object with a diamond in the center, a thin line carved into the middle of the diamond. It’s no bigger than Stiles’ thumb, but it’ll do the job. 

“This isn’t one of them though,” he shakily admits.

_ “How are you going to—” _

Stiles digs his nail into the diamond's groove, grinning victoriously as it blinks red.

_“Oh god,”_ Danny groans.  Stiles narrows his eyes at the guards outside.  _ “For the love of all that is holy, **don’t** run out—”  _

Ignoring Danny’s incoherent screaming, he dashes out of the protection of the dome and slams the metal device against the wall of grenades.  He spins around, only to be grabbed by a guard.  A cry of pain forces its way out of his throat as his arms are tugged back and held tight against his back. The guard’s grip is harsh on his wrists, their other hand pressing a gun to his temple.

“Take down the barrier and I’ll let you leave with your life,” the guard demands.

_“Stiles, the bomb!”_ Danny’s voice rings out in his ear, tone urgent. The red light on the metal device flashes faster. “ _Stiles_!”

“Y’know, I’m really not good at following orders,” Stiles says. “I honestly don’t know how I got this job.”

He can feel the air shift just before the metal circle detonates. Blackness surrounds him and the guard’s hold disappears. He concentrates on holding up the barrier as the building explodes and collapses around them. A wave of nausea hits and he drops to his knees, his entire body engulfed in a searing pain at this point, but he keeps believing.

He believes he can hold the barrier up. He believes he can protect Derek.  He believes he can save his partner.

He _can_ save him.

He _will_ _not_ lose his partner again. 

The darkness shifts as things go quiet. Walmart collapses on the floor before him, his energy spent, and fades into nothingness.

“Thanks, buddy,” Stiles says hoarsely, equally exhausted and wishing he too could fade away. 

His breath comes out shaky with relief as he sees the barrier held amongst the massive piles of rubble. All around them are ruins and dirt, the immediate area demolished. The ceiling is blown open, revealing the bright green and blue of the forest and sky. It feels so long ago already that they had walked through those woods.

Disbelief floods through him as he realizes they made it out alive. His eyes sting with unshed tears, but that’s because of the dirt and dust from the rubble irritating them.

The barrier pops out of existence and Derek stands, slowly stretching his now usable muscles. Despite still being alive, his expression is grim as he gently lifts his unconscious sister.

“We have to get out of here. We don’t know if anyone else has been watching this place,” he says. He seems to have recovered fully, since he easily jumps out of the rubble, past the surrounding walls of dirt, and up onto the forest floor.

“Good plan,” Stiles croaks through a dry throat, his tongue sticking uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth. 

He pushes his hands flat against the ground, glass cutting into his palms, but the moment he stands up, he stumbles back to the ground. He sags against the debris behind him, unable to find the energy to do anything more. In his peripheral, he spots the crushed guard under the remains of the shelf, a pool of blood surrounding them and seeping into Stiles’ clothes.

“Oh, that’s not sanitary at all,” he mumbles.

_“Stiles?”_ Danny questions with unexpected softness and care. _“Are you okay?”_

Hearing Danny’s concern, Derek's head pops out from over the edge of the crater. He peers down at Stiles in confusion.

Stiles offers a weak wave, but quickly lowers his hand, unable to keep his arm raised. His eyelids droop as he loses the battle to keep them open. His entire body aches like he’d laid on a bed of hot coals. And then ate them.

“I’m fine. The barrier was a lot. But I appreciate the concern, Daddy.” Stiles smiles wryly as Danny chuckles. He starts to succumb to sleep, though he tries to fight it, blinking his eyes open one more time. 

Derek’s in front of him, eyebrows scrunched.

“Looks like you’ll get your chance to leave me behind after all, big guy,” Stiles jokes. 

He doesn’t know why he says it. It isn’t funny. It kind of makes him want to cry, actually.

But he won’t. He’ll just sleep instead. Sleeping sounds like a much better idea. 

_“Nobody’s leaving you behind, Stiles.”_   

Stiles hums, eyes slipping closed.  “’s double-oh-seven t’you,” he corrects, speech slurring as he slips away, unable to stop it. A calloused palm touches his cheek, preventing his face from hitting the ground. 

It’s a simple gesture of kindness, and that’s the last thing he remembers. 

o0o0o0o

_Stiles was fourteen years old. He was lanky and awkward, his limbs and hands mismatched with the rest of his body, and he was hiding behind a cabinet as if he were a small child again._

_The noise of an argument had drawn him into the room, curiosity getting the best of him yet again. His head peaked out and he watched Claudia gesture wildly and angrily at Deaton as she yelled. The sound of a light squeak of shoes against the tiled floor had him whipping his gaze towards the doorway._

_Heather, also fourteen, but looking much prettier and more self assured than Stiles did, stared back at him with wide blue eyes. She was on her hands and knees, peering through the open door, the rest of her body mostly hidden by the wall._

_Stiles lifted a finger to his lips and Heather nodded in understanding, glancing at their teachers. He gestured that she was clear to move and she did, hastily shuffling forward to hide behind the nearby empty cabinet. They both stuck their heads out in the space between the two cabinets, watching the scene unfold._

_“You aren’t their mother, Claudia,” Deaton said with frustration._ _It was clear from his exasperation that it was an argument they’d had before._

_Even though Stiles had met him so many years ago, he still looked the same, as if he’d never aged. The same deeply tan skin, the same dark brown eyes that somehow held both endless amounts of concern and calculated emotionlessness at the same time. The same bald head with permanent frown-lines etched into his forehead._

_“I’ve been with them every day since they were brought here. I teach them magic, and manners, and morals. I tuck them in at night and answer the hard questions they have. I help them work through their troubles. I encourage them to always be better._ _I’m as close to a mother as they’ve got!_ _” Claudia yelled as she paced._

_Her wavy brown hair was pulled up in a bun like it often was, a few strands slipping lose as she moved. Her tall, thin frame was draped in a loose-fitting dress; the white one with red flowers and long sleeves that had always been her favorite._

_She clutched the silver moon pendant around her neck, twisting it side to side along the thin chain. It was a habit she did whenever agitated._

_“You know how Natalie feels about that,” Deaton said calmly. “You’ve gotten too attached. You’re talking about kidnapping them.”_

_“I’m talking about setting them free!” Claudia shouted. “Setting_ **_us_** _free.”_

_“This is freedom!" Deaton argued, gesturing widely at the building they’re in. “We are free to be who we are here. To be free from being hunted or killed or hated. Running to the outside world, where you will always have to hide who you really are, will not make you free.”_

_“This isn’t some idyllic place. This ‘refuge’ as she calls it, isn’t about us at all. Natalie wants revenge, wants them involved in a fight that isn’t theirs!"_

_“This is every supernatural’s fight. We’re all involved whether we want to be or not.”_

_“They’re just kids, Alan! They need someone to look out for them,” Claudia pleaded, begging him to understand._

_“If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up dead, Claudia,” Deaton cautioned. “And then they will have no one.”_

 

“Mom?” Stiles mumbles sleepily, blinking sluggishly until the blurry figure over him becomes clear.

Melissa, Stiles’ favorite nurse who also happens to be Scott’s mom, stands over him, a tightness to her smile indicating that she’d heard him. 

A hollowness settles in him as the memories drift away. Once again, he’s left feeling bereft. His dreams are filled with memories more often than not, and the pain of waking up to the reminder that Claudia’s gone still hasn’t become easier. He's not sure it ever will.

“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty,” Melissa says cheerily. She gestures to the tray next to the bed. “Someone left you a gift.”

Stiles sits up in the infirmary bed, the paper-thin gown around him rustling with his movement. A basket of plums rests on the tray, Walmart happily holding one down with a claw and pecking at it.

“How’s Cora?” Stiles asks. 

“She’s awake, but still feral. Deaton’s working with her,” Melissa says, slightly bewildered. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting that to be your first question.”

“Just curious. And Derek?” he prompts.

“There’s the question I was expecting. He seems fine. He’s been checking in on Cora every few hours, but I’ve been making sure he’s been getting some sleep,” Melissa confirms, a knowing glint in her eye. 

“Sleep?” Stiles rasps.

“You’ve been out for two days,” she states.

“Only two days? Not bad for my old age,” he quips.

Melissa snorts. “Stop that. If you’re old then what does that make me? Don’t you answer that,” she warns, recognizing his mischievous grin. “I’ll go let Lydia know you’re awake. She’s been waiting.” 

Stiles thanks her as she leaves, his voice still rough and scratchy. He grabs a plum, rubbing it against his gown before biting into it. There’s a tingle in his throat as he swallows it, and he already feels more awake, the little bit of magic in the plum enough to make him feel not as depleted.

The door slides open and Lydia strides in, her perfectly-styled red hair vibrant against the backdrop of the pale infirmary walls.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Like I blew up a building  while I was in it, used up all my magical energy, and then slept for two days,” he says.

“That would make sense considering that’s exactly what happened,” Lydia says, her lips pursing as she tries not to smile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can. Why are you even asking?”

“Do you believe me? About what happened with Laura?” Stiles asks, voice soft and tentative. 

It’s something he’s wanted to ask for a while now, especially after he was reinstated as an agent. Because he would only be allowed back if they had believed him. Right?

“Oh.” Lydia’s posture stiffens and she smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “What makes you ask that?” 

“It’s just been on my mind is all,” Stiles hedges. 

“I know I don’t really say it, but I love you, and I’ve trusted you for a long time. More than any of the other agents here,” she states. “Anyway, I just wanted to check on you. Get some more rest. Two days isn’t enough. You’re on mandatory time off for two weeks to recharge your magic.”

It’s the kindest thing she’s ever said to him and the first time she’s admitted to having any kind of love for him. It should make him feel happy, or at least content, knowing that she sees him as much of a friend as he sees her, but it settles wrongly in his gut.

She avoided answering his question.

But that conversation can wait for another time.

“They knew we were coming,” he calls out when she moves to leave.  Lydia halts in the doorway, head tilted towards him to indicate she’s listening.  “In a hideout that’s supposedly been abandoned, I’m warned by dead witches that something dangerous is coming. Moments later, in comes Derek’s younger sister, who has been missing since the Hale fire nine years ago...” Lydia is silent as the words he’s been holding back spill out of his mouth in a sudden flood. “...and she’s feral, so she can’t communicate with us to tell us where she’s been or what’s happened to her. She also _somehow_ managed to break her wolfsbane cuffs that clearly had been chained to a wall. And, most importantly, we _brought her back_ to our base.”

“I know.”

“There’s something wrong with her. There’s got to be. They _wanted_ us to bring her back here—”

“I know, okay?! Believe me, I _know!_ But I can’t turn her away. I can’t send her back to them.” Lydia looks at him then, her eyes wild. “We’re a refuge, we can’t turn her away when we can help her.”

With that, she leaves.

Walmart watches, eyes keen when he looks back at Stiles. 

“You did good today, you know. Did I tell you that?” Stiles says and then, with the half eaten plum still in his hand, motions towards the basket of plums. “You can have as many as your little black heart desires.”

Walmart chirps happily, an unnatural sound both for a crow and for the familiar himself, and, without warning, he explodes.

Stiles rears back in shock, his eyes wide as black blood and shredded pieces of entrails splatter against him and the surrounding walls. 

After eleven years of being together, it’s incredibly rare that Walmart is able to surprise him, a nd yet, that seems to be happening more often lately. And this…

This is something very new.

There’s a soft _whoosh_  as the doors open and Melissa’s head peeks in from the doorway. She eyes the mess with only mild disgust, but otherwise seems unaffected by the fact that Stiles’ familiar just exploded and painted the walls with its innards. 

“Please clean this up before you leave,” is all she says before the door closes between them once again.

Stiles’ nose scrunches in revulsion as the goo decorating his hands and face begin to move, each piece scrunching and extending, moving an itchy path across his skin like inchworms.  But it’s more than just the pieces on his skin. All around him: over the bed sheets, the walls, the floor, and ceiling, the black torn-up remains of Walmart come to life, arranging themselves in strange patterns. As they touch each other, they combine, melding together. The first shape becomes clear and realization dawns.

They’re spelling something.

The first letter is easy to recognize as an ‘A’ despite being slightly crooked. Its lines are shaky and unsure, as though it were drawn by someone who had only ever seen the letter before, but never written it. Slowly, but surely, more letters appear until there’s a single word.

Stiles’ hands tighten in the sheets. It’s one word, sloppily written, over and over again, all over the room:

 

_** A L P H A  ** _

__

_** A L P H A ** _

__

_** A L P H A ** _

__

_** A L P H A ** _

__

_** A L P H A ** _

__

_** A L P H A ** _

__

_** A L P H A ** _

 

There are seven in total, though that doesn’t really tell him anything. There are many meanings and superstitions regarding the number seven and this could refer to any one.

Taking this all in, the scene starts to feels strangely familiar. It reminds him of the Old Language, as if Walmart had been watching earlier and learned from it, inspired by that form of communication and adapted it to become his own.

A piercing shriek tears through the air, loud enough that Stiles instinctively covers his ears against it. Unlike Walmart’s usual bouts of angry masculine screaming, this is a woman’s scream. It’s an awful sound, filled with pain and fear and it sounds so real and _human_ in the way that Walmart’s screams had never managed before.

The scream abruptly ends, leaving eerie silence in its wake. It’s so quiet Stiles can hear the pounding of his heart. The hairs on his arm raise in alarm, a slight tremor wracking through in his body as he sits with rapt attention.

But nothing more happens.

The drastic change from Walmart’s usual antics has him feeling off kilter and unsteady.

He licks his dry lips and rasps, “I think you’re getting better at the ‘subtlety’ thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Revelation 9:18; The Original Aramaic New Testament in Plain English.
> 
>  
> 
> _It has begun..._


	3. The Mirror

It’s been a week and Stiles finally feels like he’s back to normal. Although, strangely enough, he had woken up this morning to find a single plum resting in front of his door with no note attached. Naturally, his first thought was that it had been from Lydia, but when he thanked her in the hallway, she denied being the one to put it there.

Technically, she said,  _“Why would I give you anything? You’ve been sitting on your ass all week doing nothing. You don’t get rewards for doing nothing, Stiles.”_

Which Stiles translated to mean:  _“Wasn’t me, but it looks delicious! Keep enjoying your vacation; you deserve it after all your hard work!”_

Which leads him to where he is now.

“Smell it,” he demands. He shoves the plum in Scott’s face, his friend rearing back just in time to avoid getting bashed in the face with it.

“I don’t wanna smell it. You smell it,” Scott says. 

“I have chronic sinusitis, I can’t smell anything,” Stiles says flatly.

“I’m envious.” Scott sounds forlorn. “My room’s right by the bathrooms.”  Despite the complaining, he leans forward, nose pressing against the fruit as he inhales.

“Smells like Heather,” he states. Then, more confused, “Why is Heather leaving you plums?”

“Good question. She usually hoards them for herself.” Stiles observes the fruit closely for any sign of mischief. It  _appears_  safe.  He bites into the fruit and a familiar tingling feeling flows through him as it feeds his magic.

Seems to be a normal plum.

“Maybe she’s wooing you.” Scott waggles his eyebrows before nonchalantly taking a bite of his sandwich as if the topic of incest was a common point of discussion.

Stiles doesn’t have to pretend to gag at the thought, it naturally happens.

“That’s disgusting, she’s basically my sister,” he says with a scowl.

“Not by blood though. And you guys met when you were both nine.”

“I’d like to first state that Heather is funny, smart, and a great person.  _But_  I would rather vomit, eat the vomit, vomit again, and then blend it into a smoothie that I drink, than date her.” 

“Can you blend something that’s already almost all liquid?” 

“It’s chunky vomit. I’d eat a big meal before it to help with the consistency,” Stiles says simply, continuing to eat his plum happily.

Scott pushes away the rest of his sandwich, looking vaguely green in the face, which Stiles gladly grabs. He’s about to take a bite when he sees  _them_  walk through the cafeteria doors.

Derek and Cora.

After three days in the infirmary, Cora woke up human and back to her normal self, though, according to Deaton, without any recollection of where she’s been the past nine years or how she became feral.

While Stiles has been taking things easy the past week, Derek’s been showing Cora around and helping her get settled in at the agency. Judging by the intense stare she’s directing at him, Derek must've filled her in on Laura as well.

It’s amazing how much different she looks when she’s not half-shifted. She appears to be either the same age as Stiles or perhaps a little younger, and, without the fur and thick forehead wrinkles in the way, it’s astounding how closely she resembles the rest of the Hales.

Like Laura, Derek, and Peter, her eyebrows are full and adept at expressing judgement without the need to speak. Her hair is long and brown, although a few shades lighter than Laura and Derek’s. Most notable, however, are her eyes. They’re the same shape and shade of brown as Laura’s, but as hate-filled as Derek’s. A winning combination, for sure.

Derek has a guiding hand on her shoulder as he leads her towards the table he usually sits at, the one occupied by other members of his team: Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, and occasionally, when he hasn’t pissed anyone off, Jackson Whittemore.

That table, unfortunately, allows her to keep Stiles within her sights as she sits.

When Stiles manages to look away, it's to find a guilty Scott— his sandwich back in his possession and lifted halfway towards his mouth.

“It didn’t look like you were gonna eat it,” he says sheepishly.

Stiles motions for him to go ahead. “It was yours first.”

As Scott goes in for a bite, a black blur dives at him, either attempting to snatch the sandwich and scratching anything that may impede that process or simply attacking Scott and the sandwich just happens to be in the way;  Stiles honestly can’t tell which.

Scott shrieks and drops the sandwich in surrender. Walmart crows victoriously, flapping his wings and escaping to one of the pillars in the ceiling, sandwich falling apart in his grasp.

Scott wipes at the bits of lettuce that had fallen and groans at the sight of red, irritated scratch marks across his arm.

“I freaking hate that bird, dude. You sure he’s not  _evil_?” he complains, dabbing at the cuts with a napkin as if they won’t heal in thirty seconds.

“He’s a familiar.” Stiles grabs  a piece of lettuce and chews it.

“And?” 

_Huh_. He ponders that for a moment. 

“Okay, yeah, there’s a good chance he could be. I mean, he is an actual demon.”

Scott's expression turns aghast. “What?! You never told me that! When did he become a demon?!”

“Uh, basically when he was created,” Stiles says, not understanding why Scott appears upset by the news.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Allison questions as she scoots in next to Scott. She’s as cheery as ever, her brown eyes glinting and dimples forming on her cheeks.

Stiles completely understands Scott’s infatuation with her. She’s super sweet, but also badass with her bow and arrows. She’s like a literal Disney princess, only significantly more like Mulan than Cinderella. 

“Walmart's an actual demon!” Scott exclaims, having no sense of decorum.

“ _Indoor voice,_ ” Stiles hisses.

Allison looks surprised, either by Scott’s outburst or the news, or both. She fidgets, seemingly uncomfortable with their intense stares as they wait for her response. “Oh. Um. Well, they do treat their employees pretty badly, I suppose.”

Stiles and Scott blink in unison, puzzled by her comments before realization dawns.

“Oh, no. Not that Walmart. Bird Walmart,” Stiles corrects.

He often forgets that Walmart is an actual company that exists. After all, he’s never been to one of their stores before, at least, not that he can recall. He had been too young to remember the four years he’d spent in the Outside before arriving at the agency.

Allison’s shoulders relax and her smile returns. “Thank god, I was not prepared for a discussion on whether or not Walmart was evil. But, I don’t...” Her eyes go wide with panic, locking on something behind Stiles.  “Uh, Stiles, I think he’s about to—”

Based on her reaction alone, Stiles knows what’s coming. With a sense of dread, he twists around to stop it, but he isn’t quick enough.

An agonized scream bursts through the cafeteria, causing most of the shifters to cover their ears against the onslaught of noise. It’s the same woman’s scream from before, realistic and tortured, so disturbing that it elicits goosebumps on his arms. His eyes narrow and his jaw ticks, annoyed because Walmart’s doing this shit on purpose. He  _knows_  how much Stiles hates it when he throws a fit in public, especially in an area that has good acoustics.

Instead of yelling though, he turns back around with projected calm, pretending to be unaffected by the sound. Walmart always drags out a performance longer when he thinks he’s being upsetting, and if Stiles doesn’t feed into his need for attention, he might lose interest.

Of course it doesn’t actually work.

The moment he faces away, Walmart floats back into his line of sight. Scott’s appearing more and more distressed as Walmart moves closer and shifts into a black, detail-less shadow figure. A thin woman with long hair flowing gently with an imaginary breeze. Her screams have died down to low, dramatic sobs and she hunches forward, her right hand wrapping around her limp left forearm as if it were injured.

Drops of black fall from her arm and pool on the floor like a liquid.

Like blood.

“ _Why_ ,” Scott groans, shutting his eyes. “Why does he have to be so creepy?”

Stiles eyes the cafeteria, registering the way everyone is staring in clear discomfort and agitation. Even Allison’s unable to watch, her cheeks pink with embarrassment at the unwanted attention.

Stiles cautiously seeks out Derek and Cora, who are watching with rapt attention. Cora appears either curious or agitated; it’s hard to tell with the permanent scowl on her face.  Derek seems disturbed by the scene, and that, more than anything else, makes Stiles want to find a deep hole to crawl into.

Laura never looked at them like that. She never treated Walmart like he was some freakish creature, even when he pulled the strangest and most horrendous stunts. Instead, she smiled at him with patience and understanding in the way that Claudia had once taught Stiles.

In the way that he's apparently forgotten.

“Hey, lil K-Mart,” he says as he rises from his seat, his voice so low it's barely a whisper. It’s one of the silly names Laura used to call him. She loved coming up with alternative store names for him.

Although he has no proof, Stiles has always believed that Walmart liked it. If he is capable of liking things, that is. Stiles isn’t sure. But Laura…

Laura always thought he was.

Laura, like Claudia, had believed the best about Walmart, even when Stiles didn’t. It’s just another one of his shortcomings, he supposes.

But it’s one that maybe, just maybe, he can fix.

Stiles reaches out towards the silent figure, his palm open and inviting. “I’m paying attention. I’m here. You want to get some fresh air? Leave the nasty judge-y people to their tasteless food?” In an instant, the illusion swirls and collapses in on itself, becoming a crow once again. Walmart surges forward with an irritated sound, his sharp claws digging painfully into Stiles’ arm.  Red blooms along light gray long-sleeved shirt where the points dig in, but Stiles doesn’t react. Quietly, he continues,  “I heard it’s supposed to rain today. Maybe it’ll start by the time we get to the gardens. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Walmart flaps his wings in agitation, but remains on Stiles’ arm, reminding him of a butterfly landing on a flower, twitching its wings and adjusting its footing until it’s settled just right. 

o0o0o0o 

_“What’s wrong, Sweetie?” Claudia asked patiently._

_Stiles, thirteen years old and dramatic as ever, was hunched over his homework, sighing loudly for the past few minutes. It had been a ploy to get Claudia's attention and he perked up at her acknowledgement, pleased that his plan had worked._

_“Jackson said that my eyes turning black means I’m a demon,” he blurted. It had been in the back of his mind, bothering him all day. His fingers fidgeted with his pencil, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip as he waited for her response._

_Claudia lowered the book she’d been reading and said, “I see. Well, Jackson’s wrong.”_

_“No, he isn’t. I looked it up.” Stiles slouched in his seat, an unhappy twist to his lips._

_He'd searched through book after book, hoping for a different answer each time he opened a new one, but they all said the same thing: witches with demon ancestry were cursed with black eyes that revealed their inner nature whenever they performed magic._

_“To be a demon means you’d have to have the darkest of hearts, to pledge your soul to the devil. But we don’t do that, do we?”Claudia asked, calm as always._

_“No,” Stiles grumbled, not entirely convinced. He still had demon blood in him, didn’t he? So what was the difference really?_

_“What is it that we do?”_

_Stiles rolled his eyes, but obligingly recited, like he had hundreds of times before, “We give offerings to the moon and the universe.”_

_Claudia’s lips quirked in amusement at his bored tone._ _“That’s right. We might have sulphur in our blood, but we don’t have to let the darkness in our hearts. The potential for evil is there, within us, but the potential for evil is in everyone. Humans and supernaturals alike, demon blood or no demon blood.”_

_Stiles frowned. “How do we get rid of the darkness inside of us?”_

_“That, my darling boy, I don’t have the answer to.” Claudia's smile was somber. “But, lucky for you, you don’t have to face the darkness alone.”_

_She extended her hand to Walmart,_ _who was perched comfortably atop the TV._ _He flew forward, landing in her lap, allowing her hand to glide softly across his feathers._

_Stiles watched in a mixture of amazement and envy, as he always did whenever Walmart let her near him._   _He never let Stiles close enough to even think about trying to pet or hold him._ _But, then again, Stiles had stopped trying after the first few weeks of scratches and claw-marks._

_“He scares me sometimes,” Stiles admitted, eyeing the bird warily. “And I think he hates me.”_

_“Because he changes into awful things?”_ _Stiles nodded. Claudia hummed in thought, _still petting the bird soothingly.__ _“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something."_

_“Sometimes he turns into you.” A frown weighed down the corners of Stiles' lips as he recalled the episodes._   _They’d been happening more frequently. At first, three years ago, Walmart would unexpectedly perform some gruesome scene once or twice a year, being his usual grumpy and quiet self the rest of the time. Then it became something he did every six months. And, finally, every three months._

_He worried about what would come next. Every month? Every two weeks? Every day?_

_Claudia’s hand froze in mid-air, hovering above the bird. “Oh?”_

_“Yeah, but he— you _—_  die. There’s lots of blood and knives in your back.” Stiles sniffled, his fingers playing with a loose thread on the chair underneath him. “I don’t like it.”_

_There was a pause._

_She resumed petting the bird in her lap._

_“I think he’s scared too,” Claudia finally said. “I think that, maybe, he’s trying to show you what he’s scared of. I think he’s lonely and scared and he needs a friend to listen to his fears. There’s a lot of darkness in him and he needs some help with it. You just have to be more patient with him.”_

_“You don’t think he’s telling the future?” Stiles asked fearfully._

_There was a tightness to Claudia's expression that he couldn’t place. “I don’t think so, no.”_

_Stiles eyed her warily, before deciding that she might be right. He stood up and moved closer, ever so slowly. He peered down at Walmart again, but this time with inquisitiveness._   _He tentatively reached out to pet the bird, going as slowly as possible so Walmart could move away if he wanted to. Like he usually did._

_“It’s okay to be scared. The darkness scares me too,” he_ _whispered_ _._

_Warmth and awe flooded through him as Walmart allowed him to stroke silky black feathers._

_“See? He just wants a friend,” Claudia encouraged. “He’s a sensitive soul. Like us.”_

o0o0o0o

It’s not raining like he’d hoped, but the sky is gray and overcast with a slight movement to the trees from the light breeze.  The garden is small. There’s little more than a plain bird fountain in the far left corner and a large Sycamore tree taking up most of the space in the square.  The grass is a dismal shade of brownish green, as it is not very well maintained and too often stepped on. The section of flowers, in-between the tree and fountain, are planted close to the wall and are wilting as fall looms closer.

Walmart plays with a rock in the grass, seemingly happy as a clam as he rolls around with the rock caught in his clutches.

There’s a soft  _snick_  from behind, the door notifying him of someone else’s presence.

“Remember when he used to have an episode only one or two times a year? I miss those days,” Heather says. She plops down on the ground beside him, uncaring of the dirt or bugs.  “He’s really gone downhill since Mom died.”

“Since Mom left,” Stiles corrects.

“She would never have left us behind.  _Never_. You know that." Her words are adamant, but not unkind. “She’s dead.”

It’s a belief she's held for years now, but Stiles can’t accept her truth. To him, a world without Claudia is a world that isn't worth living in. He can accept that he'll live the rest of his life without her, but he  _cannot_  accept a world in which her smile, her kindness, and her patience does not exist at all.

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t tell her she’s wrong, but that doesn’t mean he accepts it either.

“Haven’t seen you lately,” he says, changing the subject.

A flash of guilt crosses her face. She tugs at the grass by her feet, plucking them from the ground and tearing them into thin strips.

“I’ve been working a lot.” The are under her eyes is tinged a light shade of purple, the skin slightly sunken as though she hasn’t been sleeping well. “They’re having me pick up Erica’s slack since she lost her magic. And..." Her gaze slides away in shame. "...I may have also been avoiding you.”

“Avoiding me?” 

Heather focuses on Walmart, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Avoiding him.”

“Walmart?”

“He makes me uncomfortable.” Stiles opens and closes his mouth in shock. He hadn’t realized the depth of her dislike towards the bird. “He’s doing it all the time now.”

'It' being his episodes, Stiles presumes. It’s a fair observation. Since Laura’s death, Walmart’s caused a scene nearly every other day, sometimes multiple times in a _single_ day.

“Does he scare you?” Stiles reluctantly asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.

“No.” 

“Then why…?”

“Why do you think he does it? The screaming and the violent images,” Heather asks, avoiding answering. Her eyes are low, focused on the grass as she moves her fingers. The torn and ripped apart pieces of grass magically sink back into the ground, becoming whole and green.

“I don’t know what to think about it. A part of me thinks that he’s warning me of something, or that he’s angry or scared and trying to communicate that, or he’s got a fucked up sense of humor— or  _maybe_  he just wants people to pay attention to him. In the end, does it really matter why he does it? Nobody listens to him anyway. Nobody wants to be around him.”

The look in Heather's eyes softens. “ _You_  listen to him.”

Stiles scoffs, leaning back on his elbows. “Nah, I just babysit him. He’s like having a perpetually drunk friend who spews gibberish, dances naked on tables, and embarrasses you in front of all the cool kids at the party. Meanwhile, you just want to get them to go to bed without them vomiting on you, getting into a drunken fistfight, or dying in their sleep by choking on their own vomit.”

Heather’s eyebrows had risen as he talked. They’re practically touching her hairline once he’s finished. “You’ve clearly thought that analogy through.”

“I had a lot of time to think while I was suspended. But I’d like to be better with him. I just don’t know how. I don’t know what he  _needs_  from me.”

“Maybe he doesn’t really need anything from you? Maybe he wants a friend,” Heather softly answers. Stiles’ heart lurches painfully at the familiar words, a long ago memory running through his head, the gentle voice of his mother saying,  _“See? He just wants a friend. He’s a sensitive soul. Like us.”_

Heather inhales sharply, catching Stiles’ attention. Walmart has stopped playing with the rock and instead is staring directly at her, his little black eyes intense and unwavering.

After a few seconds of tense silence pass, he flies into the branches of the Sycamore tree.

Heather exhales shakily and pulls her hands into her lap.

“Thanks for the plum, by the way,” Stiles says in an attempt to distract her. It works.

Heather pouts. “Aw, how did you know it was me? It could’ve been anyone!”

“Scott sniffed it.” 

“Damn werewolves.” 

“Why’d you leave it?”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Heather sighs, reluctantly admitting, “You don’t seem okay.” She pauses and adds a clarifying, “Since Laura.”

“I haven't felt okay,” Stiles confesses. “Since Laura.”

“Want to talk about it?” 

He considers it. He hasn’t really talked about it much. ]Scott, Heather, Allison, and Lydia know most of the details, though he's kept some to himself.

“Kate Argent was there; the one who took Laura. She saw Walmart,” Stiles begins. Heather's expression is blank as she listens without an ounce of judgement.

“Okay. You’ve mentioned that before.”

“She knows,” Stiles says, collapsing fully onto his back and gazing up at the gray sky.

“Did she say she knew what he was?”

“It’s the way she looked at him. She looked practically  _gleeful_ ,” Stiles grinds out.

“That doesn’t mean she knows anything,” Heather tries.

“She knows. I have this feeling.”

“Okay. So what if she does? It doesn’t matter. You two can overcome any obstacle together. Even Kate Argent. Remember what Mom said when Walmart was created? How lucky you are because you’d always have someone by your side, willing to protect you and follow you anywhere you go." S hame passes over her features as she continues, “I was really jealous of you back then.”

Jealous? Stiles huffs a mirthless laugh. “Nothing to be jealous of. He’s always there for me, but not because he has a choice. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”

“To be fair, I think he hates everyone,” Heather points out.

Stiles tilts his head, conceding the point. He’s pretty sure that’s true too.

“I wonder if he feels anything. If he feels pain when he creates those images. I hope not,” she murmurs.  There’s a momentary drop of silence before she speaks again.  “Do you hate it here as much as I do?”

“Sometimes I dream of setting this whole compound on fire,” Stiles readily admits.

Somehow, Heather looks relieved to hear that.

“I think that, besides the fact that  _the screaming is horrifying_ ,” her voice raises on the last part as she pointedly directs her words towards the branches where Walmart hides. At a normal volume, she continues, “He makes me so uncomfortable because I can see myself in him. When everyone around you doesn’t understand you or they don’t acknowledge you, it makes you want to scream. It makes you want to lash out.” Her eyes drift to blood on his sleeve before darting away again.  “He’s a caged bird, as much as I am. As _we_ are. This place doesn’t feel like a refuge. It’s just another prison. They use us up like we’re batteries, like we can be run down and recharged repeatedly, and then we’ll be thrown away once they’re done with us. I hate it here.” Her eyes well up with tears, but she’s not done.

“It’s my birth-mom’s birthday today. Back home. And I know she gave me up, but I thought— if I could just see her, if I could show her how much I’ve grown, and how much better I am now— maybe she’d let me stay.” Heather wipes at her tears. “I’ve worked four missions in the past month and a half. I’m exhausted. I just wanted to see her. I asked Lydia and she said they’re not approving any leaves right now. But Liam got to go home last week to spend time with his dad, unsupervised.”

Stiles stays silent, allowing Heather to vent her frustrations. 

“Because we’re witches, we can’t leave. We have restrictions the others don’t, because they fear us.” Her blue eyes are alight with fury. “You know Erica got bit, right? While you were suspended.”

“Yeah.” 

Lydia had told him, after it’d happened, though everyone in the entire agency knew within an hour of Erica getting bit.  It’s a huge deal when one of only three magic-capable agents is turned by a werewolf and loses their magic in the process.

“Did you know she planned it?”  Stiles sits upright, mouth agape and eyes darting across Heather’s earnest face, searching for any hint of a lie. He finds none.  “She told me, before she did it. She and Boyd were sent to take care of a rogue Alpha and it was her only chance to get the bite. She actually  _apologized_  when she told me, because she knew it would fuck us over, since we’d have to pick up her slack." Heather lifts her chin defiantly. "I told her to do what she had to do. Who can blame her? She was having seizures weekly from the stress of overusing her magic.”

“I don’t blame her either,” Stiles agrees. Sure, there's a bitter sting of resentment in his chest, but he’s not sure if he resents her for leaving them with extra work or if he resents her for getting rid of her magic first.

That stops him short, his heart picking up its pace as he realizes what he’d just thought.  He would never give up his magic, even if he were given the option… Would he?

He swallows thickly, troubled at the conflicted feelings swirling tumultuously within him. H e’s not sure of the answer to that question.

Heather nods, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “I love my magic. I really do.” There’s a sad sincerity in her eyes as the reluctant admission leaves her lips. “But I can’t help but envy her. If I didn’t have my magic— if my mom hadn’t been scared of me— I could've had a normal life. There are supernaturals hiding peacefully among the humans in the Outside. I want to be one of them. I want to be  _anywhere_  but here. Can you understand that?”

“I can,” Stiles says, a similar ache of longing spreading within him.

Heather smiles, her cheeks damp and eyes misty. “I know we don’t hang out as much as we used to, but you know I still love you, right? Coven over everything.”

“Coven over everything,” Stiles repeats with a tender, barely-there smile.

For a moment, it's as if Claudia never left.

But only for a moment.

A movement in the tree catches their attention. Heather gasps and her hand covers her mouth.

“Holy  _shit._ ”

A woman hangs from the trees, a noose tight around her neck as she dangles and sways, presumably freshly killed. A broomstick rests at her feet and deep claw marks mar the trunk of the tree, the gouged-out letters reading  **_‘  BURN THE WITCH’ _ ** in a messy scrawl.

More disturbing, however, is the familiarity of the woman. She’s petite, about 5’4’’ and thin, with a slight hourglass shape to her. To their increasing horror, the blackness changes and the once deep, colorless black shadow figure becomes more of a grayscale color-scheme.

Like she'd been taken straight out of a 1900’s black-and-white film, the figure's black hair has turned to a pale gray, her skin a pale white, her body clothed in a grayscale version of SUPE’s standard navy uniform: dark gray pants and dark gray jacket over a light gray shirt.

A perfect black-and-white replica of Heather.

Laughter echoes unnaturally through the garden. It sets Stiles’ teeth on edge, the manic sound coming too close to something resembling Kate Argent’s laughter.  It wouldn’t surprise him if that’s what Walmart is trying to emulate. He always did love upsetting Stiles most. It’s like a game Walmart never outgrew. One Stiles has gotten better at playing.

Until now.

Now it's like he’s taken two steps back while Walmart’s evolving, learning, and refining his technique quicker than ever.

“I think he’s communicating pretty clearly right now,” Heather says breathlessly, as though speaking too loudly might disrupt the scene. Her wide, blue eyes hold far less disgust and far more intrigue than they should. “Is it just me or is he becoming more disturbing?”

Stiles winces. “That might be my fault, actually. But, good news, he’s becoming very receptive to constructive criticism.”

o0o0o0o

Stiles is pissed off.

No, screw that. He is beyond pissed.

He can’t come up with a word to express how beyond pissed he is because he’s so mad and can’t spare that kind of mental energy right now.

“What the hell do you mean you’re cutting our vacation short?” he seethes.

Usually, he has more patience with Lydia, but not now. Not when twenty-four hours haven’t even passed since Heather broke down crying to him over how exhausted and overwhelmed she felt.  Not when Lydia is suggesting they cut his “mandatory time off for rest” by a whole  _week_.  Not when she brought a smug Harris in with her to be the bearer of bad news while she played the ‘I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands’ card.

“I already apologized—” 

“How does your apology help me? What can I do with an apology? It won’t help my magic recharge faster. It won’t stop you from cutting my next recovery time short. Or the time after that. So, tell me, what use is your apology if it changes  _nothing?”_

Lydia’s eyes hold a mixture of anger and hurt. She directs her gaze to Derek, who's sitting silently in the chair next to him with his hands folded. He hasn’t said a word since entering the room, apparently having no opinion about his own time off ending early.

In this moment, feeling so alone and backed into a corner, Stiles can't help but hate him too.

“She doesn’t even owe you that apology, kid. She was being nice. You work for us and you help the agency when, and however, you can. Even if it means working overtime. That’s how it is,” Harris says.

“Even if it means never getting to visit the Outside? Or overworking Heather to the point of a breakdown? Or forcing Erica to use her magic until she literally seizes from the stress of it?” He’s yelling by the end, all of his building resentment escaping him in a rush.

“I already promised you a trip to the Outside,” Lydia defends, her own voice losing its practiced calm, “and Erica was an anomaly.”

“You promised ’when things are less volatile’! When have things ever not been volatile? When will it ever stop?!” Stiles argues. “You keep using your words to avoid committing to anything. And Erica was not an anomaly. Just because Heather and I don’t have seizures doesn’t mean we aren’t in pain and suffering from the stress of using our magic constantly.”

“I know it’s stressful here. I  _know_  that, but you should be grateful you’re not stuck working for the hunters.”

“I should be grateful? Grateful?! If your mother hadn’t involved us in this conflict at all, we could be living a normal life right now!” Stiles shouts, all restraint having left him in a rush.

Lydia’s cheeks are red, fury bright in her eyes.

“You’d really rather turn your back on all the supernatural beings who need our help so that you can have a cozy life?” she hisses.

“How would it be turning my back on them? I never had a choice to be in this to begin with!”

Lydia rears back as though she’d been hit. Her burning hot rage immediately shifts into a something brutally cold. “Yeah, well,  _your_  parents made the choice to leave you at our doorstep. Not me!”

It’s a low blow and she knows it. Her eyes widen and her hand moves to cover her mouth, as if she could force the words back in.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t...”

Stiles straightens, an eerie sense of calm taking over him. He shoves past a still-silent Derek, opens the door, and lets it fall closed behind him.

  

He’s brooding in angry silence in the cafeteria, stabbing viciously at the undeserving food on his plate. Scott’s frowning with concern, his own meal barely touched. Allison’s next to him, twirling a small arrow between her fingers as she reads through their mission files, having already finished eating.

“At least we get to work together again?” Scott offers placatingly, though his tone is hesitant and unsure. “It doesn’t seem like it’ll be a difficult mission either.”

“We’re supposed to protect the President. How is that not a difficult mission?” Stiles responds with less patience than usual. Scott’s frown deepens. “Also, why are we protecting him? I think I stormed off before that explanation.”

Allison lifts her gaze from the files. “He secretly funds our programs as well as other rescues and agencies like ours. He signs documents that help pro-supernatural rights organizations, but, you know, without letting regular people know that we exist.”

“Oh.” Stiles hums. “He needs protection from hunters then?”  Allison nods.  “I guess that does sound kinda easy,” he hesitantly admits, trying to focus on the positive. Scott beams at him.

Stiles attempts to return the smile,  but his eyes slide past him, distracted by the cafeteria doors opening and—

Oh.

Oh,  _no_.

Matt Daehler strides in while mid-conversation with Derek beside him. They’ve never worked together or, to Stiles’ knowledge, spoken a word to each other before. So why is Derek associating with Matt Daehler, of all people?

Seeing the distress on Stiles’ face, Scott swivels around, his back stiffening when he spots them. He swings back around, hissing, “I thought Matt was in France.”

“That was a week ago. I guess it was too much to ask that he stay there forever, drinking endless amounts of wine, getting drunk, and drowning in the Seine river, huh?”

“The Seine river’s in Paris,” Allison corrects, her eyes glued to the report as though she's trying to memorize all the information.  She actually might be doing that. She's well-known around the agency for being an over-achiever and one of Natalie's favorites.

“I said he was in Paris,” Scott says with a puzzled expression.

“You said he was in France.” 

“Paris is in France.” 

Allison finally looks up, smiling in amusement. “Scott, Matt was in Nice.”

“Oh.  _Nice_ ,” Scott jokes dumbly, grinning at Allison’s  half-hearted eye roll.

“Why are you guys talking about Matt anyway?" she asks and, to Stiles’ mortification, unsubtly peers over Scott’s shoulder to see what they're discussing. “Oh. Why’s he talking to Derek?”

Stiles groans into his hands. Hearing his name, Derek glances over, a glare settling on his face when he realizes who's discussing him.

That doesn’t look promising.

Matt follows Derek’s eye-line and smirks, offering a shitty smug wave like the asshole he is.

“I’m so dead, aren’t I?” Stiles sighs, further collapsing in on himself until his face is flat against the table. “This will be the mission that finally gets me killed. He clearly still despises me. Nothing I do will ever be enough to change that.”

“Is that Jackson in line for food? Be right back, he owes me some kanima venom for my paralyzing arrows,” Allison says in a rush, quickly abandoning them.

“That’s such a weird sentence,” Stiles states, the same time Scott dreamily says, “That’s so cool.”   
  
The giant hearts in his eyes are practically audible. It’s revolting.   
  
“Anyway, don’t worry about Derek. You know I’ll watch your back,” Scott says.

“You’re supposed to be watching the President’s back,” Stiles says, voice muffled against the wooden table.

“Allison’s basically got that covered. I’m just arm candy.” 

“It’s amazing how accepting you are of that.”

Allison returns to the table surprisingly quickly, but Stiles doesn’t think anything of it until it registers that Scott’s gone oddly silent.

“Scott?” He lifts his head and sees a fearful-looking Scott. He follows Scott’s gaze to— oh.

Well.

Honestly, he’s lived a full twenty-one years and, okay, admittedly, a lot of his life has sucked so far. But he’s pretty okay with dying right now, he supposes.

Possibly. As long as it isn’t too painful.

But he has a feeling it’s gonna be painful, b ecause Cora Hale, in all her hate-filled glory, is in Allison’s vacant seat. She glares at Scott, biting out a harsh, “Scram.”

Stiles figured this would happen eventually, but he's not prepared to handle this today. Word about Cora spread rapidly through the agency; whispers about how she’s the coldest of all the Hales, her short stature filled to the brim with hatred and bitterness towards anyone and everything.

Supposedly, her rudeness far exceeds both Derek and Peter combined, though Stiles isn’t sure that’s true. Peter's pretty terrible. However, he completely believes the rumor that she made another agent cry because they'd accidentally taken the slice of cake Cora wanted.

Scott’s eyebrows pinch together. “Uh… No?”

Bless Scott. What a good friend. Stiles will make sure his tombstone commemorates that his last moments were of him standing up for his best friend against the deadliest opponent they’ve ever faced.

“Did I  _ask?”_ Cora snaps.

“It’s fine, Scott. I’ll meet up with you later,” Stiles says, his stomach already feeling queasy at the thought of being alone with her. 

“You sure, man?” 

Stiles nods, not confident that he won’t beg his friend to stay if he opens his mouth.

Scott’s lips thin, but he complies and stands up. “I’ll see you later, then.”

One can only hope.

“You’re Stiles,” Cora states. As if wanting to confirm her target before completing the hit.

Stiles nods. “You’re Cora Hale.”

“You got a last name?” she asks, grabbing his un-opened ice cream container from his plate. She peels it open and pops out the tiny spoon before leaning back and slouching in her chair. She’s far more relaxed than he is. He can practically feel his back muscles complaining from how still and up-right he’s sitting.

“Gajos.”

Cora jams her spoon into the ice cream and brings it up to her mouth, brown eyes calculating as she examines him.

“Lie,” she declares, pointing at him with the spoon. “I don’t like liars.”

“It’s not the one I was born with, but it’s the only one name that matters to me,” Stiles states with far more patience than he’s feeling. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

It’s an informal last name, one that isn’t on any of his paperwork and never legally became his last name. But it had belonged to Claudia once upon a time, and that’s enough for him to consider it his own.

Cora seems to accept that answer since she moves on. “Derek told me you’re the one who killed Laura.”

She says it so casually, so easily, like they were discussing the weather and not her sister's murder.

“That’s great. Did you come over here for a reason?” 

If she wants to hate him, wants to blame him and yell at him, he can handle that. He’s said much worse to himself. He’d appreciate if she’d get to the screaming instead of pointlessly talking around it though.

“I don’t think you did,” she says, scooping another spoonful. That throws him for a loop.

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“I don’t think you killed her and I don’t blame you for her death.” 

Stiles’ eyes flit back and forth over her face, trying to discern what was happening. She’s near impossible to read, her face showing nothing but unchanging stoicism this whole time.  She’s no longer feral, but there’s something about her that seems much more dangerous and wild. Something in her gaze that makes him feel like prey: inspected and analyzed. 

“Why not?” 

“Call it a hunch.”

“Do you know something?” Stiles leans forward with narrowed eyes.

Cora frowns, the first change in her expression since sitting down, but there’s a detached quality to her speech. “I don’t remember much about what happened to me. But I remember feelings. Sometimes. And I remember nightmares. There were a lot of those, almost endless amounts. Although, perhaps some of them were real, I’m not sure. What they did to me really fucked with my head.”

She swirls her spoon in the melting ice cream. “I don’t know how long they had me. I remember the fire at our house in Beacon Hills. I remember being young and running in fear. I think I found a nice pack I stayed with for a while. Then, one day, I was in the place of nightmares. I wasn’t the only one stuck there, either. And I felt a bond when I was there. I know it was Laura.”

Stiles listens patiently, his palms sweating as horror of what she's been through washes over him.

“Laura was alive?” Stiles asks, his mouth moving before his brain could register the question.

Her eyes meet his, a haunted look reflected in them. “Yes.”

“Derek’s eyes changed after three days,” Stiles rasps, upset. “I thought it took that long for the power to shift over, but— they had her for three days. In that  _place_.” His hands tremor with distress at the thought of what the hunters could have done to her, how miserable and torture-filled they could have made her last days.

Cora shifts in her seat and leans closer, ice cream seemingly forgotten.

“Look, I don’t know you, and I don’t know who Laura became after the fire, but, with the way Derek talks about her, I don’t think she’d want you to blame yourself like this.”

Stiles huffs a short, humorless laugh. As if it were possible for him not to blame himself.

“Did you feel when she…” He clamps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, trying to regain his composure. When he reopens them, it’s to see Cora shake her head shortly.   
  
“They dragged me to that shithole building right after they brought her in.”

“The building we found you in?”

She nods.

“Laura died two and a half months ago. You were there for  _months?”_  he asks, horrified.

“Felt a lot longer.” She shrugs like it doesn’t bother her, but he sees now, how much pain she keeps hidden, stored underneath her emotionless exterior.

“I’m sorry.”

Now  _that_  causes her eyes to narrow, her posture stiffening with annoyance. “What for? You didn’t do that to me.”

“I’m just sorry. Even if she didn’t die because of what I did, it's still my fault they took her. What I did was  _unforgivable_.” His voice shakes with emotion, his breaths becoming shallow the way it does when he starts to panic.

Cora goes quiet, back to being closed off. As far as he can tell, she’s never once smiled or laughed here, never once showed any semblance of emotion other than agitation or annoyance; and yet, being around her feels easy in a way that it had with Laura. Like he doesn’t have to pretend around her.

Cora suddenly speaks up. “I don’t know how I became an alpha.” 

He doesn’t follow her train of thought, so he waits for her to continue.

“There are only three ways to become an alpha. You inherit it from someone else, you become one as a True Alpha who has earned it, or you kill for it. I can guess which way I got it, but I don’t remember it. Any of it.” Her eyes don’t waver in their intensity, like she can make him understand through the force of her stare alone.  “I read your report and I watched your tapes; the recordings from during the mission and after. That look in your eyes is the same one I saw in mine when I looked in the mirror four days ago. I don’t like looking in mirrors anymore.”

Stiles blinks rapidly and looks away. “The tapes weren’t made available to anyone outside the mission.”

“You may want to explain that to the Daehler kid then. He pulled Derek and I aside earlier to watch them, said he wanted to get the truth out there.”   
  
With that, Cora stands, but Stiles can’t let her leave without asking, without knowing...

“Why tell me all this? Why talk to me at all?” he asks, voice rough. He’s pretty sure that if he were to touch his face, his fingers would come back wet.

Cora looks down at him, something new in her eyes that wasn’t there before. It looks like pity.

Or perhaps something more like understanding.

“I already told you. I don’t like to look in mirrors.”

Stiles’ eyes follow her as she leaves, even as she passes Derek. She glances at her brother briefly and, whether she says anything to him or not, Stiles can’t tell.  But Derek’s arms are crossed over his chest and he’s staring at Stiles with a scowl that leaves him wondering how much of their conversation he heard.

What did he think about the recordings?

Did he see what Cora saw in him?

Or was the anger in his eyes going to be directed at him forever?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm overwhelmed (in a good way) at the amazing comments I received on the last chapter. THANK YOU. I read every single one and they really help keep the inspiration going!
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? What is up with Walmart? Does Derek agree with Cora? Will Scott and Allison ever officially get together?
> 
> What do you think will happen next? Tell me your theories-- I'd love to hear them! Let me know your thoughts in a comment below.


	4. Suspect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading all your comments for the last chapter was a blast! I love the questions and the theories you have. Keep them coming!
> 
>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Violence, skirting the line of mild torture.

They are crammed into the van, sweating from the heat, because, of course, they were given the shitty vehicle with the broken air conditioning. At least it was late September and not mid-July.

“Scott and I will shadow President Finstock, sticking as close to him as possible, while Stiles and Derek walk through the crowds and scan the area for hunters or anyone who may look suspicious,” Allison declares, files resting on her lap and crossbow attached to her hip. “Sound good to everyone?”

“Why doesn’t Stiles protect the President?” Derek asks, seemingly genuinely perplexed. “Can’t he just throw up a barrier around him?”

Stiles’ jaw drops in shock and offense. 

He’s aware Derek doesn’t mean to be rude and he doesn’t know anything about magic, but Stiles has no problem educating him. 

“Excuse me? Do you know how much energy those things take? I wasn’t even sure that last barrier was going to hold around you and Cora.”

Derek’s spine goes rigid in the way that means Stiles has fucked up. “What.” 

“Well, the good news is that it did hold. Obviously, you know that. But, uh, it was our best option at the time. One may argue that it was our _only_ option at the time,” Stiles says, floundering under the intensity of the stare directed at him.

“You could have gotten us all killed!”

“Ah, but I didn’t!” Stiles says. “And, technically, if I didn’t do what I did, we definitely would have died.”

Derek doesn’t appear to be comforted. “How did you get rehired?”

Stiles frowns, but ignores the comment and pretends it doesn’t sting as much as it does. A small, petty part of him wants to remind him that Laura had thought he was an excellent agent, but he knows mentioning her name would only make things worse.

“He got rehired because he’s good at his job,” Scott speaks up, with a rare anger to his usually happy-go-lucky tone.

Allison looks between Derek and Scott as both men glare at each other, as if trying to determine whether or not she’ll have to bring out her ring daggers.

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t say anything more. He leans back and closes his eyes, apparently prepared to ignore them for the rest of the drive. Allison’s shoulders lose their tension, though she seems almost disappointed at not being given the opportunity to use her favorite daggers.

Stiles offers Scott a grateful smile, which is promptly returned.

The rest of the van ride is spent with Derek ignoring their existence, Scott and Stiles whispering animatedly, and Allison preparing her arrows. 

She grinds a little wolfsbane onto their tips, her eyes drifting briefly towards Derek when Scott and Stiles ask why. 

“Just in case!” She replies cheerily, but Stiles knows that the tension is getting to her too.

Stiles frowns at that, but doesn’t argue. Honestly, he appreciates her willingness to back him up, but he really hopes that the situation doesn’t worsen to the point of coworkers turning against each other.

Feeling quite paranoid himself, he checks his gun multiple times to make sure that real mountain ash-infused bullets had been loaded instead of regular bullets, which would have little to no effect on most supernatural species. 

Weapon checked, he moves on to his restock ammo, which also thankfully appears untampered with.

But, there’s still one more thing…

“Hey, psssst, Scott,” Stiles faux-whispers. “Can we switch CommUnits?”

Scott shoots him a look of disbelief, obviously not comprehending why Stiles feels the need to switch recording devices.

“Sure, but why? You didn’t break yours already, did you?” Scott asks, instantly pulling the small device out of his ear, handing it over, and taking Stiles’ in return. “Because if I hand Lydia another broken CommUnit, she’s gonna kill me.”

“No, just trying to be careful,” Stiles hedges, pushing the CommUnit into his ear until it sits comfortably. He shifts his head slightly, noticing Derek’s eyes are open and he’s watching with a raised, pointed brow.

It’s kind of astounding how much judgement Derek can express with a single eyebrow. The whole situation is ridiculous anyway, Derek has no right to be critical; _he’s_ the reason that Stiles feels the need to switch recording devices in the first place.

Despite his righteous indignation, Stiles averts his gaze, feeling sheepish at having his paranoia noticed. He turns away and presses the CommUnit to activate it. There’s no Danny in his ear this time and he’s surprised to find himself actually disappointed by that fact.

Apparently, Danny is stuck covering Greenberg’s shift since he’d called out sick. Isaac was supposed to replace Greenberg originally, but rumor has it that he bolted the night before, escaping the agency to brave the Outside world like the handful of others before him.

The van pulls up to the venue and opened its doors, all of them breathing a sigh of relief as the cool air hits them. 

Stiles stows his gun on his belt, trailing behind Derek, nodding a quick farewell to Scott and Allison as they go their separate ways.

 

They blend in easily with the crowd, wearing street clothes—regular jeans and a black top with long sleeves—instead of their usual SUPE gear. Stiles maneuvers his way through the throng of people, just soaking in the atmosphere and trying to feel as if this world is one he could belong to.

He admires the stunning architecture of the old stone buildings and basks in the feeling of being included in this community as they gather for the President’s upcoming re-election speech. It feels good to be a part of something like this, to feel like he belongs in this world, even if only for a fleeting moment. 

For the briefest second, the thought of getting lost in the vast crowd and disappearing flits through his mind. It's a thought that passes through him every time he’s working a mission in the Outside, and, as always, he knows that he might be able to do it. But he’d have to sneak past and potentially fight his way through Derek, Scott, and Allison. He could probably take them, if he didn’t hold back or care if any of them were permanently injured, but he would never risk it. Could never risk that.

As always, as quickly as the thought had entered his mind, it leaves, because he knows he’d never do it. Not only would he not fight Scott, he’d also never leave him behind. Nor would he abandon Heather or even Lydia, despite how angry she made him sometimes.

Besides, he doesn’t know anything about surviving in this world. He wouldn’t make it out here alone.

He sighs and takes a seat on a curb, content to just people-watch while he waits.

The thing is, a huge part of being an agent is waiting: waiting for the signal to begin, waiting for something to appear or someone suspicious to come along, waiting for shit to all of a sudden go sideways. It’s not constant action-packed adventures and car chases like the movies make it seem.

He’s fine with that. Usually.

And that’s when a different kind of signal grabs his attention.

He pushes up from the curb, shoving his way through the heavy crowd, hastily tailing the unmistakable figure he’d seen across the street.

Greenberg.

Greenberg, who had supposedly been too “sick” to work today, but shows up to an important political event for an anti-hunter politician. 

Greenberg, who was the tech agent assigned to his mission the night Laura Hale died and Kate Argent showed up.

Stiles manages to cross the street and follow Greenberg into a little cafe cushioned between two grocery stores. He steps through the entrance, immediately spotting the heel-end of a boot turning at the top of the stairs on his left. He goes to follow, but is stopped by someone pointedly clearing their throat.

The cafe’s hostess is staring at him with an unimpressed expression, her voice flat as she asks, “Can I help you, sir?”

“I, uh…need to use the restroom,” Stiles says, gesturing to the stairs that were, thankfully, marked as the way to get to the bathrooms.

The hostess rolls her eyes at that, clearly having not been hired for her gracious customer service skills. “A man already went up there. He has the bathroom key, so you’ll have to wait until he comes back.” 

Stiles shuffles his feet before taking a chance and dashing up the steps, shouting about it being an emergency.

“At least buy something when you’re done!” The hostess angrily yells after him. 

Stiles turns at the top the stairs to arrive in an open attic-like space, no furniture or decorations except for a fire extinguisher and a wooden door on the far back wall with a ‘unisex bathroom’ sign attached to it. He quickly casts a silencing charm across the stairwell, knowing it was likely going to get loud up here. Close to one of the open windows, Greenberg sits on the wooden floorboards, focused on assembling a rifle. Stiles steps closer, the floorboard creaking under his weight. Greenberg startles to his feet, clutching the partially-assembled rifle to his chest as Stiles stalks towards him. 

“So much for being sick, huh?” Stiles says. 

“It’s not what you think—” 

Stiles lifts a hand and waves it as if he were swatting at a fly; the simple movement sends Greenberg soaring into the back wall, the bathroom door breaking with the force of his weight. 

“Fucking hell, I hate magic,” Greenberg wheezes, pulling himself through the splintered wood.

“How long have you been working for the hunters, Greenberg?” Stiles snarls. 

“Dude, you’re supposed to use our numbers, not real names,” Greenberg whines. 

“I’m two seconds from killing you and you’re worried about me using your _name_ , seriously?” Stiles questions. “Besides, nobody actually uses their numbers.”

Greenberg gulps, face looking rather pale. “You wouldn’t actually kill me. We’re frien— _fuck!”_ Stiles exhales sharply, patience growing thin as he grabs Greenberg’s arm and twists it back until it breaks with an unpleasant _snap_. 

They were never friends; they’ve never even talked to each other outside of training.

“Every lie you tell me, I’ll start breaking fingers and then shooting them off. And then I’ll reattach them with magic and shoot them off again. But to save us both the hassle, you could just tell me the truth."

“W-what do you want to know?” Greenberg asks, his face going from pale to an ugly shade of green instantly. 

“Who’s giving you instructions? Is it Matt?” 

“What? Matt? Why would Maaaaaaaaghhh—I didn’t lie!” Greenberg screams as the first finger snaps. 

“I just want straight, simple answers. No rambling,” Stiles says calmly. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Greenberg grits out through clenched teeth.

Stiles breaks another finger, wincing as Greenberg screams right in his ear. Thank goodness he had the hindsight to cast a silencing spell, otherwise this would be difficult to explain to the police.

Despite how easy it is, how naturally it comes to him, he doesn’t like having to resort to this. He doesn’t enjoy torturing or potentially having to kill anyone, much less a colleague. But anger burns viciously through him at the thought of Greenberg betraying them all, selling them out to hunters, and causing them to lose beloved agents.

If Greenberg hadn’t told the hunters where they would be, Laura might still be alive. 

But she isn’t.

“Next lie and I start shooting,” Stiles warns. He means it and Greenberg knows it. The agency trained them well in various areas: hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, tracking, and torture being the major ones.

He’d started his lessons on torture techniques six months after his fourteenth birthday, much to Claudia’s upset. But there was no option to escape it, though they had tried. And then Claudia had vanished and he had no choice but to continue his training. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, didn’t want to think about having to brutally scare or injure someone until they talked; and yet, to his own disgust, he excelled at it.

Greenberg starts sobbing, tears cascading down his face and snot peeking out of his nostrils. Stiles grimaces at the sight and it suddenly becomes clear why Greenberg was never allowed to work in the field.

“I swear, I don’t know what’s happening. I’m just following orders,” Greenberg stutters out through his sobs.

“Whose orders?” 

“Lydia’s! Who the fuck else’s— oh, please, don’t. Come on, man. You’ve got to believe me. Please don’t kill me.” 

There’s a loud _caw!_ just before a shot rings out through the air. 

Stiles stumbles back, feeling a blunt impact, and Greenberg hits the ground with a thud, injuring his broken arm even more. He moans loudly in pain, curling around the injury and crying. 

Stiles turns to see Walmart flat on the ground, wings spread as black blood pours from where he’s been shot. That explains the phantom impact then. Stiles frowns at the corpse, watching as it fades away as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Attempted murder of a witch’s familiar; that’s going to get you in a shit ton of trouble when Lydia finds out,” Stiles announces, his hands up in the air in surrender.

“I wasn’t aiming for the bird.” Derek stands on the last step of the stairwell, his gun steadily trained on Stiles. “Don’t move or the next bullet won’t miss.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow on the gun. “What are you doing, big guy?”   
  
“What am I doing? What are _you_ doing? You’ve completely lost your mind,” Derek snarls, eyes darting towards the sniper rifle lying abandoned on the ground.  
  
Stiles goes to wave a hand at Greenberg in the corner, but quickly halts the motion when Derek’s hands tighten reflexively around his weapon. “He’s the mole. He was going to—”

“I’m not the mole, asshole. You are!” Greenberg yells from the floor, his hand protectively cradling his limp arm.  
  
Derek’s eyes flit between the two agents, before settling on Stiles. His gun remains unwavering, the barrel aimed at Stiles’ chest.  
  
“You can’t possibly believe that! Can’t you hear him lying?” Stiles yells, but the anger drains out of him when he sees Derek’s determined expression. Of course he can’t hear the lie; SUPE agents know how to lie undetected. After all, what use is werewolf hearing when surrounded by professionally trained liars?

Fear flows through his veins even as he fights to keep his face stoic and voice calm. He’s pretty sure the tremor in his raised hands gives him away though. 

“I thought we had a moment the other week, y’know. I saved you, you realized my worth and carried me in your arms back to base, and now we’re destined to fall in lo—”  
  
“Why should I believe you, Stiles? After everything? I _want_ to believe you but, after Laura…” Derek’s voice is desperate, possibly even more so than Stiles’.

“For the last time, I didn’t kill her, you overused lunch bag. I’m getting real tired of having to repeat that. You know me, Derek! You’ve known me for years! Why don’t you believe me?” Stiles snaps, pent up anger and hurt bleeding into his words. 

“I saw the tapes!” Derek roars and Stiles’ eyes widen as he realizes how much pain there is in his words and how little anger. “I read your report. I read it maybe fifty times, over and over again, because it just didn’t make any sense. We knew you. We trusted you. We—Laura _loved_ you,” his voice cracks with emotion as he continues on, “So why would you betray her? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.”

Derek’s eyes roll skyward and he scoffs, as if he were upset with himself for trying to believe in Stiles. His eyes drift back down, an icy edge to them as they lock back on Stiles. “But then, Matt showed me the tapes, and I finally understood. There doesn’t have to be a reason. A demon doesn’t need a reason to cause chaos. You really are the monster they say you are. You’re the reason why I can’t bury my sister and say goodbye, you’re the reason why she’s gone forever!”

The words hit him like a physical blow and suddenly it’s like Stiles can’t steady his breathing. His eyes burn with unshed tears and he forces himself to inhale and exhale slowly, but he can’t tell if it’s actually doing anything. His hands quake, still raised in the air, and he can almost hear the sound of Laura’s perplexed, _“Stiles?”_

A seed of doubt forms in his mind. What if it was happening all over again?

What if he’s losing his mind? What if this isn’t real?

Is Derek really here? Is Greenberg?

Stiles shuts down the whirlwind of thoughts, forcing the spiraling panic to the back of his mind. He can’t doubt himself. He knows what he saw. He knows it! “Matt was aiming his gun—”

“Matt wasn’t ever holding his weapon. Matt wasn’t anywhere near Laura. He was on the stairs, unconscious,” Derek growls. His eyes flicker red; a dangerous warning sign of an alpha starting to lose control of their shift. “I saw the footage with my own eyes. If anyone is the mole and not to be trusted, it’s you.”

Stiles blinks back his frustration, trying to focus on the deep breathing exercises Claudia taught him.

Still, he can’t help but wonder, if Derek believes this so strongly, did Lydia feel the same way? After all, she had completely dodged the question when he asked her outright.

There’s a faint stabbing sensation in his chest when it occurs to him that he actually may _not_ have been cleared to return to work.

What if this was all a test to see if he’d mess things up again? To see if he could really be trusted?

The little seed of doubt in his mind begins to grow, its roots stretching down and digging deep into his heart.

“He attacked me unprovoked,” Greenberg says. “He was torturing me, you saw that! He’s not right in the head, Derek. You need to make a decision. Are we calling for backup or…?” He lets the question hang; leaving a tense silence in its wake. 

Stiles feels a bead of sweat trail down the back of his neck, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. He sees the moment Derek makes his decision and he flings up a barrier to block the shot.

At least Derek wasn’t aiming for his heart or head. A non-lethal shot has to count for something, right?

“Coward!” Derek snarls, his eyes still shifting back and forth between alpha red and their normal pale green.

“I’d rather be a coward than a traitor,” Stiles bites back. 

He ignores the doubt that lingers in the back of his mind. He has to believe in himself if he wants to make it out of here unscathed. 

“Laura was my friend too; my best friend! I loved her so much. I never would have hurt…” He cuts off as Derek charges at his barrier, bouncing off it immediately. Stiles stumbles back from the force of it, though he regains his balance quickly. He raises his head, surprised to see glowing red eyes and a mouth full of fangs staring back at him.

So this is what it’s come to.

Laura would be rolling in her grave if she knew this was happening. Her two favorite people, face to face and ready to tear each other apart over her; her beloved brother having completely lost complete control of his shift in his grief.

“You don’t get to say her name!” Derek bellows, charging forward again. 

Time to drop the defense.

Stiles shoos the barrier away, lifting a hand to send Derek flying backwards with a small burst of magic that burns in his fingertips and palms. It’s a searing pain, more painful than normal since his magic hasn’t fully recovered from the last mission.

Derek’s feet slide against the floorboards, but he almost instantly regains his composure and aims his gun, firing a single shot that misses. Badly. 

Stiles blinks owlishly at the unexpectedly awful shot and, for a split second, he manages to feel awed by Derek’s terrible aim. 

But then the fire extinguisher on the wall behind him explodes and white clouds spray violently outward, quickly filling up the room.

Derek lunges through the low visibility, his enhanced senses enabling him to find Stiles instantly, and he tackles him to the ground. 

Stiles gasps in pain as sharp claws dig into the meat of his right shoulder, tearing deeply through the muscle.

He focuses his magic and pushes it into his hands, believing that he’s as strong as the Hulk as he slams his palms into Derek’s chest. For the second time, Derek is sent soaring backwards and Stiles takes the opportunity to jump to his feet. 

Needless to say, the heavy hit to the back of his head comes as a shock.

Stiles staggers forward as his vision swims, his head bursting with a brutal, stabbing pain. Greenberg moves into view, breathing heavily as he grips the empty fire extinguisher with his good hand.

Clutching his head with his left hand, Stiles throws his right arm forward. The action sending flares of pain radiating from his shoulder down his arm, but he can’t focus on that now. His magic is quick and Greenberg slams backwards into the wall, sliding down and hitting the ground with a heavy _thump_. 

He’s knocked out cold.

Stiles lets out a breath at having removed one problem, but Derek takes the opportunity to throw himself at Stiles again. It’s a single moment of being off-guard that costs him dearly.

Stiles grabs at the hands wrapped around his throat, trying to pry them off and willing his magic to just _work with him,_ but he can’t concentrate long enough to get it to work. He’s too panicked, too frazzled by the situation as he struggles for air.

He was right. This is going to be the mission that finally gets him killed.

Abruptly, Derek jolts forward with a grunt, his eyes clenched in pain before he falls to the ground. He seizes, his muscles tensing and shaking in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of Erica.

Stiles sits up, stunned by the sudden and unexpected turn of events. He leans forward and spots a familiar metal arrow embedded between Derek’s shoulder blades, tiny tazer prods extending from the shaft.

It’s one of Allison’s.

He swivels his attention towards the entrance as Allison steps through the drifting gas, her posture tense and crossbow still aimed at Derek, even as he shakes on the ground.

“Allison? What are you doing here?” Stiles says dumbly as he scrambles to his feet. 

As if finally recognizing that the threat has passed, she slowly lowers her crossbow. “Your bird kind of led me here. I figured it meant you needed some backup.” 

She gestures over to where Walmart is clinging to, and hanging upside down from, the metal railing of the stairs. He rocks back and forth while he dangles, as if imitating a bat. 

Hmm…perhaps he should consider changing his name to Lassie. 

He’ll have to think it over more later. Right now, he has more important things to focus on. He grimaces at his blood-stained hands, wiping them on his already ruined shirt as he rises to his feet. He feels unsteady, in more ways than one.

He has a bad feeling that he might need stitches in his head and, groaning as a flare of pain runs down his arm, he knows for a fact he will need them for his shoulder. He sighs to himself, knowing he’s going to have to suck it up and use both of his arms to somehow discreetly exit the cafe with two injured SUPE agents in tow.

He’d better get a vacation after this. Maybe he and Scott could go to the shooting range. He could really use the emotional release that comes from successful target practice. Speaking of…

“Where’s Scott?” Stiles abruptly asks. 

“He’s protecting the President,” Allison says slowly, as if it were obvious. 

“Alone?” Stiles asks pointedly.

At that, Allison’s shoulders slump a bit and she smiles sheepishly, seemingly having realized her mistake. “Oops?”

Stiles sighs and waves her off with his good arm. “You go help Scott. I’ll deal with these two.” 

Derek releases a sigh as his muscles unclench, the tazing finally having stopped. Allison’s fingers clench around the crossbow and Stiles unsubtly places himself directly between Allison and Derek. 

“No,” Allison answers, seeming a little baffled as she shifts on her feet and eyes Stiles with uncertainty. “Wasn’t he trying to kill you?” She gestures towards Derek with her crossbow.

“Might’ve been,” Stiles says simply. 

“Then why…?” 

“Look, not that I don’t appreciate you saving my life, because I do, but, I’m not letting another Argent kill one more Hale.” 

Allison’s expression goes tight and uncomfortable at the reminder that she comes from a family of werewolf hunters; hunters that include the notorious Kate Argent, who had murdered nearly all of Derek’s family in a house fire. 

Stiles feels a pang of guilt, hating to make Allison feel bad about her heritage, since she can’t help who raised her. She made the noble choice to leave that life behind years ago, having recognized the toxicity in her aunt and grandfather. The fact that she left her family behind, to do the right thing, spoke volumes of her character.

“It’s okay, Ally. I’ve got this. Just… don’t say a word about this to anyone, okay? You saw nothing. Right?” Stiles implores. 

Allison hesitates, but nods and takes a step back towards the stairs. Stiles’ shoulders drop in relief.

“Good. Now go help Scott before he ruins everything,” he jokes.

Allison smiles at that, though she still looks a little uneasy at the idea of leaving him alone with Derek and Greenberg. 

As her footsteps fade away, Stiles swivels around to face Derek. He’s sweating and panting, a continuous low growl coming from his chest. He’s still on the ground though he’s managed to prop himself up on an elbow. Blood from the wound drips and seeps into the cracks and crevices in the wooden floor, and Stiles’ frown deepens when he realizes just how close the arrow is to Derek’s heart.

And, having seen Allison prepare her weapons earlier, he knows it’s coated in wolfsbane. 

Stiles kneels down next to his partner, snapping his fingers and believing that his jar of wolfsbane is in his hand and not back in his room. With a wisp of green smoke, the jar appears. He grabs a pinch of the power in his left hand and snaps the fingers of his right, imagining fire. Sparks fly out of his fingertips and then a tiny flame hovers just above his fingernail. He burns the wolfsbane for a few seconds, letting it get nice and toasty before shaking the flame away. 

He blinks out of his deep concentration, only just realizing now that Derek’s stiffened next to him, his growls coming out loud and dangerous.

“Easy there. I’m trying to help,” Stiles says quietly. “But this is gonna hurt a lot and I’m not even remotely sorry about that.”

He yanks out the arrow with his right hand, gritting his own teeth against his own growl of pain as it pulls at his own wounds. He doesn’t worry too much about finesse since Derek will heal completely in a few minutes anyway. He does, however, flinch back at Derek’s pained roar that causes his ears to ring even after it’s stopped.

He silently thanks the universe, once again, that he remembered to put up that silencing charm. 

Without further ado, Stiles shoves the wolfsbane into the wound, possibly digging it in with more force than is technically necessary, but nobody can blame him for being at least a little petty about the situation.

Derek writhes in pain and shifts until his flat against the floorboards. It looks agonizing and Stiles chews his lip, feeling a teensy bit remorseful that he’d added to that pain. 

But, honestly, Derek kinda deserved it.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief as the wound knits closed, healing almost instantly. 

“Well, this has been fun,” Stiles says as he stands, snapping his fingers again. 

Derek’s head turns to face him, the red slowly fading from his eyes. The shock of brutal pain likely anchored him, allowing him to regain control of his shift.

Sweat drips from his forehead to his dark hair. And yet, he’s still somehow insanely attractive. It’s completely unfair. Stiles toys with the idea of punching his perfectly chiseled cheekbones, but he manages to resist the urge. Because he has control over himself, unlike a certain someone. 

“Sadly, I’ve got people to do, things to meet. You know how it is. No hard feelings, right?”

“What are you talking about?” Derek grits out, pushing up from the floor and leaning against the stairwell railing behind him. His claws scrape against the floor during the transition and the sound draws his attention to them. He blinks down at his sharpened nails stained with Stiles’ blood, seemingly surprised to find the sharpened nails there at all. 

As if he’s only just realizing how out of control he’d been, now that that the haze of his anger was clearing.  A look of bewilderment and fear crosses his features as he swings his head back up, eyes going wide when they zero-in on the deep gashes across Stiles’ shoulder.

“Did I…?” His voice is wrecked and Stiles can’t deal with this right now. He nods his head towards where Derek’s wrist is encased in wolfsbane cuffs that attach him to the stairs. 

Walmart, still swinging back and forth on the railing beside him, crows loudly and flaps his wings, as if laughing. He might actually be, who knows really.

“I’ll send Scott back for you,” Stiles says. 

He turns his attention to the still-unconscious Greenberg and points his left hand in his direction to levitate him, floating him a few feet above the ground. Stiles’ entire body aches from the constant use of defensive magic, a low burn flickering through every single one of his muscles. He clenches his jaw and ignores the desire to curl up into a ball until the ache goes away.

“You can’t just leave me here,” Derek calls after him as Stiles starts to make his way down the stairs.

Stiles peers up at him, lips pursing before he snaps his fingers again. He smiles pleasantly as duct-tape pops into existence and covers his mouth, stopping his protests. The wave of pain is worth the furious look in Derek’s eyes.

“That’s a good look on you, Der. Maybe now you’ll get to practice listening more and talking less, hmm?” Stiles says, feeling the rush in his veins as he finally gives into his vindictiveness.

After all, there’s only so much a person can take before their patience ends.

Stiles focuses on Greenberg, willing the man to become invisible to humans, so that they can leave in peace. He continues his descent, silently hoping that his belief is enough, because he honestly he can’t tell if Greenberg actually is invisible. Since he isn’t technically fully human. 

Walmart swoops down from the railing, trailing after them.

It isn’t until the hostess stares at him in utter horror that he realizes he forgot to do something about his blood-soaked shirt and hands.

“I tripped,” Stiles says and quickly skitters out of there before the police can be called.

o0o0o0o

_Stiles, six years old and rather small for his age, sat on the couch in the lounge of the agency. His tiny legs were resting on Claudia’s lap, his head and body leaning against the cushioned couch._

_Claudia’s voice washed over him as she softly read from the book in her hands._

_“And so, Amy and her familiar, James, had—once again—saved the day,” Claudia recited, closing the book gently and peering down at him._

_“Does every witch have a familiar?” Stiles asked, always full of questions._

_“No, baby. Only witches who need a little extra help controlling their magic get familiars,” Claudia said patiently._

_“Witches with black eyes?” Stiles questioned._

_Claudia paused at that, as if thinking about how to best answer the question._

_“More often than not, yes, I suppose witches with black eyes need extra help more than other witches,” Claudia concedes._

_“Because of their demon blood?” Stiles continued._

_“Because it makes their blood strong, which makes their magic powerful and harder for them to control sometimes,” Claudia explained._

_“Will I get one then? Because of my eyes?”Stiles questioned, reaching to take the book into his hands. He opened it, not nearly as gently as she had, and peered down at the image of James, the black cat._

_He wanted a familiar like James._

_“I don’t know. It’s possible,”Claudia said._

_“You’ve got black eyes. Like me,” Stiles said, looking up from the book. “How come you don’t have one?”_

_“A familiar? I do have one,” Claudia said._

_“Where is it?” Stiles asked, immediately dropping the book and shuffling closer to her, his eyes brimmed with curiosity._

_“She’s hiding,” Claudia mock-whispered, leaning closer conspiratorially._

_“Why?” Stiles loudly whispered back._

_“Because it can be dangerous for familiars to be out in the open,” Claudia replied, her tone becoming more serious._

_“Why?”_

_“Because, if the bad guys see them, they can hurt them. And if our familiar gets hurt badly enough, then we get hurt too,” Claudia explained._

_Stiles thought about that for a moment and then promptly announced, “My familiar’s gonna be in...indi...indivisible!”_

_“Do you mean ‘invincible’?”Claudia asked, appearing to be holding back a laugh._

_“Yes! Invisible.”_

_At that, Claudia did let out a laugh and Stiles frowned, not understanding what was so funny._

_“Do you want to see my familiar?” Claudia asked._

_“But she’s hiding,”Stiles said with wonder._

_“I know. But I think she can trust you.” Claudia winked and gently removed his tiny feet from her lap before striding out of the room. Within moments, she’d returned with her arms behind her back._

_“Voila!” She brought her arms forward, presenting a pincushion cactus decorated with three small, magenta flowers in between the thin spikes. It was nestled inside a little pink pot decorated with poorly painted sunflowers._

_“Her name is Spike,” Claudia said, her cheeks tinted slightly pink as if embarrassed by the name. “I made her when I was your age!”_

_Stiles let out a stunned cry of, “My age? But you’re old!”_

_Claudia mock gasped and then laughed. “I’m twenty-six years old, buck-oh! That is not old!”_

_“It is so old!”_

_“Just you wait ’til you’re my age and a little nugget calls you old. We’ll see how you like it then,” Claudia huffed, though there was amusement shining in her eyes._

_Stiles refocused on the cactus, standing up and walking closer to inspect it. “How does she fight bad guys?”_

_“Bad guys? ‘How does she fight bad guys’? Well, let me tell you! I just pick her up and throw her at my opponent and then I run!” Stiles giggled and moved away as Claudia playfully wiggled the cactus towards him._

_“No way!” He said through his giggles._

_“I’m serious! Her needles are vicious,” Claudia said._

_Stiles laughed even harder, shrieking happily and running away as Claudia chased him around the room with the cactus._

o0o0o0o

Stiles wakes up in the infirmary’s lab. He sits up, wincing at the pulled muscle in his back from the uncomfortable sleeping position. His shoulder’s blissfully pain-free thanks to Deaton’s numbing cream, but the back of his head throbs. He thankfully hadn’t needed stitches for the latter injury, but Deaton had sternly warned him that he was getting a concerning amount of concussions. As if it had been his personal choice to have a fire extinguisher smashed into his skull.

“Did I fall asleep?” He asks around a yawn, hopping down from the marble counter.

Deaton’s standing at a workstation nearby, wearing goggles and gloves as he works. There’s a tube filled with an unknown liquid in his hand, a tube that looks like one of the samples he’d stolen from the mission in the abandoned building.

“Only for about twenty minutes,” Deaton says.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, stopping as he passes by a mirror. 

“Don’t be. I enjoyed the silence,” Deaton says truthfully.

Stiles grimaces at his reflection, seeing himself shirtless for the first time in a long time. His entire upper body, from his wrists and hips to his collar bones, is covered in thick black ink. They don’t always form images; most of the time they’re just random swirls and twists that move and shift as they get bored. Occasionally, they’ll take the form of trees, flowers, or other scenes from nature and, in doing so, will add some detail and variety by incorporating grays and whites in the tattoos. But, most of the time, they remain solid black and form simple waves across his body like badly drawn rivers or flames.

He hates them.

His eyes drift to the claw marks across his right shoulder, the jagged lines covered in a cream-colored salve given to him by Deaton. The skin around the injury is blank, his tattoos having shifted away from it earlier to avoid the unpleasant sting of the salve. 

Now, they move across his skin in impatience, the wavy lines resembling fat snakes wiggling their way around. The only one that stays stationary is the detailed portrait of a crow on his upper left bicep, its beady eyes looking directly at the injury on the opposite shoulder.

As the ink on his arm moves, the raised cuts and scars on his skin are revealed. His frown deepens at the sight, hating how self-conscious they make him feel. He searches around the room for a linen bin and drapes one of the paper-thin blankets over his shoulders to give himself some semblance of modesty. 

“You need to be patient and let the salve work undisturbed, Stiles.” Deaton tuts at him from across the room, without even looking his way. How did he even know…?

“But it’s taking forever to work. You getting worse at this healing thing in your old age?” Stiles antagonizes, moving to stand on the other side of Deaton’s workstation. He leans over the table, gazing down at the rack of unmarked vials. An open notebook with hastily scribbled notes and a pen beside them.

Deaton ignores the jab and jots down some more notes before putting the vial back into the rack and then inspecting.

“You don’t think I’ll turn, do you? Like Erica?” Stiles asks, gnawing at the inside of his cheek in his nervousness. 

“He didn’t scratch you deep enough, I wouldn’t worry. Besides, Ms. Reyes was not born with magic as strong as yours,” Deaton says, his eyes not once straying from the vial. 

“So, if I’m not likely to turn like Erica did, what would happen if I got bit? Do I keep my magic? Or do I become allergic to mountain ash and stuff?” Stiles asks, curious. 

“I’m not sure. We could put it to the test if you would like,” Deaton says, voice and face impassive as always. 

Stiles blinks at that, not sure if he’s joking or not. He honestly can never tell with Deaton. 

“Uh… No, thanks. I’m good. Just wondering,” Stiles says. He pauses for a moment. “Find anything good in those things?” 

“You don’t need to be here to heal, Stiles. You can easily do that in your room,” Deaton says. 

“I’m hiding. You know nobody wants to see this mess,” Stiles whines, gesturing towards his shirtless torso and the blanket draped ridiculously across his shoulders. 

Deaton finally looks up and stares at him in silence, as if knowing he’ll get the real reason if he waits long enough. It works every time and this time is no different. 

It’s kind of unfair, actually. He’s known Stiles since he was four and he has Stiles’ quirks figured out, but Stiles barely knows anything about the man in return. Deaton’s an enigma to everyone but Deaton himself.

“I gave Lydia my report on what happened on this mission,” Stiles admits, caving under the pressure of Deaton’s oppressive silence. 

“And this has you concerned because…?” Deaton prompts. 

Stiles sighs, leaning back against the workstation. He quickly pushes back off it when Deaton shoots a pointed look his way.

“She said that ‘the situation didn’t look good’. You know, me attacking another agent…again.” He grimaces, able to admit that it doesn’t exactly _sound_ good either. “I get that it looks bad, I do, but I wish she’d take into consideration the fact that it’s Greenberg. Nobody likes Greenberg. Not even Greenberg likes Greenberg.”

He pauses again, trying to trace back to the point he was trying to make initially. “Anyway, she said she’d review the tapes and get back to me. But I can’t…” 

There are too many ways he could finish that sentence. 

He can’t stand thinking about what she will say.

He can’t stand to be alone right now.

He can’t handle this anymore.

He lets the sentence hang unfinished instead. Deaton seems to understand anyway.

“I could use some help, I suppose,” Deaton says, handing over a vial that Stiles accepts gratefully. “Write down everything you smell. Scan it with your magic after and let me know if you can find any extra ingredients in there that aren’t detectable by sight or smell.”

“So, you never did answer me. Have you found anything good in these things yet? Anything that might fix your sense of humor, for example?” Stiles innocently inquires.

Stiles peers into the puke-colored green, wincing as he catches a whiff of the rancid smell; he’s pretty sure Deaton gave him this vial so he wouldn’t have to smell it himself. 

He doesn’t complain though, because it’s better than doing nothing.

“Not yet. So far they’ve just been random mixes of ingredients, seemingly for no real purpose,” Deaton answers.

“What, like decoys?” Stiles asks. “So they might be completely useless.”

“It’s possible,” Deaton admits.

The next few vials he receives are all horribly pungent, their smells ranging from well-used-laundry-bag-that-hasn’t-been-washed-in-six-weeks to I’m-pretty-sure-something-died-in-this-tube. He knows by now that it’s definitely on purpose and Deaton’s vials probably smell of lavender and daisies.

It’s still better than being alone with his thoughts.

 

Stiles is fully healed and back to wearing his blessedly long-sleeved shirt when he heads back to his room, though he stops abruptly when he spots Lydia sitting on his bed. She startles when he enters the room and she hastily wipes at the tears on her face. 

Stiles’ stomach sinks. 

The door closes behind him.

“I’m in trouble,” Stiles states. It’s not a question. Looking at Lydia’s hurt expression, the defeated slump in her shoulders…she doesn’t have to say anything. He already knows.

“You’re in trouble,” Lydia confirms anyway. Her top lip glistens, her tears having gathered there, and she still hasn’t looked up from the manila folder in her hands.

“What did the tapes show?” Stiles asks.

“There were none. Your CommUnit was destroyed,” Lydia says, her voice monotonous. Her red eyes, brimming with tears, finally lift. Her gaze is filled with accusation, loss, and determination. “And the security cameras outside the equipment room had been manually turned off.”

Stiles’ legs are shaky, but he forces himself to calmly sit next to her on the bed. 

“I see,” is all he can think of to say. 

So this is it then. He’s being framed. 

Or he’s going crazy.

Lydia angles herself away from him, but he still can see the way her chin trembles with emotion, the slight shake in her shoulders, how she blinks rapidly to stop more tears from falling. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for her to regain her composure.

It doesn’t take long for her to stabilize her breathing and lift her chin, instantly closing off and becoming Lydia Martin the Assistant Director™ once again. 

“You’re suspended again. I don’t know for how long; and we’re requesting an interrogation,” Lydia says, her voice strong and steady with resolve. She doesn’t look at him again, even as she places the folder on his lap.

“It’s not really a request, is it?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Lydia says.

“And Greenberg?” Stiles asks. “Is he being summoned for interrogation too?”

“No,” Lydia repeats.

“ _Why_ _not?_ He called out sick, but he was there in the cafe window, setting up a rifle! He had no reason to be there. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.”

“He was there because I asked him to be, okay?” Lydia loudly proclaims. 

“What?”

“He was there as backup in case the mission went awry,” Lydia says. At Stiles’ confusion, she explains, “He was chosen because I didn’t think anyone would recognize him. He only really does the Tech job and he tends to keep by himself. He’s rather…forgettable.”

Stiles ignores that last comment, though it settles uncomfortably under his skin. That sounded a little too close to something Natalie Martin would say. 

“Why weren’t we notified?”

Lydia doesn’t answer, but she looks at him as if she knows he’ll figure it out anyway. He does.

_“It’s why my mom’s not firing him. We’re going to be monitoring him more and limiting the information he has access to.”_

Lydia had said that to him almost two weeks prior and, at the time, she had been talking about Harris. But maybe she wasn’t only talking about Harris.

“Because you’re only giving certain information to specific people,” Stiles says hollowly. “You didn’t tell me because Greenberg was a line of defense…against me.”

“Not _just_ you,” Lydia hedges.

“Bullshit!” Stiles scoffs. “Did Derek know?” He scoffs again at Lydia’s answering silence. Her lack of an answer is more honest than anything that’s come out of her mouth thus far.

“I take it Greenberg wasn’t wearing his CommUnit?” Stiles asks tiredly.

“He was off duty. This was done as a favor to me,” Lydia says. 

Stiles nods at that. Of fucking course.

“Can I ask you—no. Can you explain to me, what exactly I would have to gain from attacking Greenberg? What possible motive could I have for attacking another agent,” Stiles grinds out. “Please, explain to me what is going through your head, because I, for the life of me, cannot comprehend this.”

“I don’t know,” Lydia rasps.

“You don’t know? You don’t know?! Well, that’s just great, Lydia.” Stiles is practically fuming as he stands and paces. He can feel the magic thrumming in his veins, the tattoos shifting across his skin at his agitation. “I’m so glad I’m being shackled _again_ , suspended _again_ , having my reputation stomped on _again_ over a misunderstanding you created because you don’t trust me!”

“What was I supposed to do?!” Lydia finally snaps, yelling back and jumping up from the bed. “Of course I don’t trust you, you gave me no choice! _You shot Laura!”_ A sob escapes her throat as she finishes, her hands shaking as she rests her head in them. “You killed her, Stiles.”

Stiles stoically sits back down on the bed, his hands cradled between his knees. 

Flatly, he says, “Daehler’s been showing the tapes to people, by the way. From the mission with Laura. In case you were interested in pursuing any potential leads that aren’t me.”

Lydia swipes at her eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply to get her breathing back to normal. Stiles had taught her that trick, when he’d caught her in the midst of a meltdown in a broom closet nearly a year ago. He never did find out what had caused her to break down like that, but the situation had led to the tentative friendship they have now.

Or had.

As her breathing steadies, she pulls back her shoulders and straightens her posture, because it would be an actual tragedy if she ever showed an ounce of vulnerability around the agency hallways. She’s so tightly wound, her mother’s influence stripping her of any personality other than what Natalie approved of.

“I’ll look into it,” is all she says before she opens the doors and strides out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters. Action, betrayal, self-doubt, Spike-the-familiar, and Walmart continuing to die all the time. 
> 
> Now you tell me, what did YOU think of this chapter? Who do you suspect is the mole and why?  
>  Will Derek ever stop threatening to kill Stiles? And should Stiles rename Walmart "Lassie" after all?  
> 
> 
> Tell me your thoughts-- I love reading them! Talk to me in the comments below.


	5. The Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Walmart's gruesome antics get worse (spoiler details in end notes if you are concerned).

Stiles walks through the hallways of the compound, iron cuffs tight around his wrists. Two little girls run through the halls giggling, their bright laughter stopping short when they spot him. They blatantly stare at the shackles and hurry past him. He tries not to wince when he hears the loud whisper of one: “Don’t look at him! Keep going!”

He pushes down the sting of the words, pulling back his shoulders and raising his chin high. He will not be ashamed.

Not again.

When he turns the corner, he’s unexpectedly greeted by the sight of Heather and Scott standing by the entrance of the interrogation room. As he approaches, they both turn and smile, letting their conversation drop. 

“Hey, man. How are you feeling?” Scott asks, enveloping him in an enthusiastic hug as if they hadn’t just seen each other the day before. 

“As good as can be expected, considering.” 

Heather offers him a tight smile and a hug as well. Her arms linger around him, a reluctance in her eyes when she pulls away.

With a _click_ , the door opens. Lydia stands, holding the door ajar with an unreadable expression; she tilts her head invitingly towards the room. 

It’s time.

Stiles inhales shakily, nerves fluttering like butterflies in his gut, but steps forward. Heather and Scott move to follow, only to be stopped by Lydia’s raised hand.

“It’s a closed session,” she says, not unkindly. At their protests, she placatingly adds, “You don’t have to worry. I’m looking out for him.”

Heather scoffs, a mocking smile adorning her lips. “As if you look out for anyone but yourself, _Ass_ -istant Director Martin.”

Lydia’s eyes narrow sharply at the disdain in her voice and though her impassive face gives nothing away, Stiles knows her well enough to see the brief flash of hurt in her eyes. He resists the urge to comfort her. He’s in this situation, shackles tight around his wrists, because of her; because she couldn’t trust him, her only friend.

Then again, he’s starting to realize that perhaps Lydia Martin the Assistant Director™ doesn’t have any friends at all.

“It’s fine, I can do this alone,” Stiles says to Heather, ignoring Lydia’s comment of supposed support. Lydia’s lips thin at the minor slight, but she stays silent.

He reaches out to hold the door and, before he walks past the threshold, he offers his friends a reassuring smile.

“We’ll be right outside waiting,” Heather says, anxiety lacing her voice as she steps closer, watching with worried eyes as the door begins to close between them. “We have to prepare for the Equinox tonight, don’t forget!”

And, with that, he’s on his own.

There’s a man waiting in the middle of the large, empty room; he appears to be in his forties, his hair slicked back and face cleanly shaven. It’s been seven years since Stiles last saw him, but he instantly recognizes him.

Peter Hale.

He’s standing beside a lone chair and Lydia comes to a stop on the other side of it, an edge of unease to her usually poised posture.

“Ah, Stiles. What a shame we keep meeting under such unfortunate circumstances,” Peter says, an air of arrogance about him as he clasps his hands behind his back and grins.

Stiles’ already low mood sours even further at the comment.

“The last time we spoke was after Claudia’s death, wasn’t it?” Peter asks, a cruel twist to his lips.

It’s true, that was the first and last time they’d spoken. Peter had been assigned to be Claudia’s partner during her last few months at the agency, despite her having been inactive in the field for years. She’d tried to argue against being reinstated as an agent, saying Heather and Stiles still needed her mentorship, but Natalie declared her magic skills necessary and drafted her anyway. 

From what Stiles remembers, Claudia hadn’t liked Peter, often complaining that he was uncooperative and dangerous, focused solely on revenge and was prone to losing control during fits of anger.

He was also the last one to see Claudia alive. He’d returned to the agency, alone, late at night, with nothing more than a vague, _“She’s not coming back,”_ when asked about his partner.

“Claudia’s disappearance,” Stiles corrects. 

Peter’s smarmy grin becomes sharp. “Sure, kid. We’ll go with that.” 

Stiles absolutely despises him. 

The sound of the door opening again has all three of them turning their heads. Stiles is the only one who isn’t expecting the next guest, however, since neither Lydia nor Peter react to the sight of Derek striding in.

“Why is he here?” Stiles snaps, glaring at Lydia accusingly. “I thought this was a ‘ _closed session_ ’.” 

Peter answers for her, “Lydia doesn’t trust either of us, so she asked him here as extra protection. A… bodyguard, if you will.” 

“He’s Stiles’ partner and Laura’s sister, I felt he had a right to be here,” Lydia says tonelessly. 

Peter ignores this. “Personally, he wouldn’t have been my first choice as a bodyguard. He tends to be easily manipulated.” He directs the next part to Stiles, “I heard you were close with my niece, Laura. Tell me, did she happen to inform you that my nephew slept with an Argent woman, let her into our house, and allowed our entire family to be murdered?”

Derek flinches and Lydia’s eyes briefly pinch closed. 

Stiles clenches his fists, a warm tingling in his palms as he thinks about sending him up to the ceiling and dropping him. The floorboards seem sturdy enough, they might be able to withstand the impact. 

The truth is, everyone knows about Derek’s affair with Kate Argent when he was sixteen years old, foolishly blinded by love, and completely unaware that she was a hunter plotting to kill his family. She was significantly older than him at the time, adding another layer of despicableness to her already long list of crimes.

“The fact that her underage brother had been cruelly tricked into an illegal ‘relationship’ with a horrendous, older _bitch_ may have come up once,” Stiles says. 

Derek is unusually demure, his face void of emotion as he silently watches the discussion.

As if bored with Stiles’ response, Peter adjusts his attention to Lydia instead. “And yet, there’s an Argent here in our midst. Interesting.”

“If you have a problem with Allison being an agent, we can discuss it later,” Lydia bites out. “But, for the record, I have complete faith in her. She renounced her family’s anti-supernatural views and has helped us immensely through her ability to infiltrate and gain inside information from the hunters.”

“Her ability to double-cross us, you mean?” Peter says with a wolfish smile. “An Argent is an Argent like a snake is a snake and always will be. They can shed their skin as many times as they want, but they’re still the same underneath.”

“No one would know that better than you,” Stiles says flatly. Peter’s eyes snap to his. 

“She’s double-crossing her own blood for us,” Lydia defends, her calm demeanor starting to crumble.

Peter scowls at her. “As you said, we can discuss this later.” 

He returns his attention, once again, to Stiles. “It’s nice to finally get to talk to you after hearing so much about you. Claudia had told me so many stories. I’m curious, was your experience with being set on fire as unpleasant as mine was?” 

“Peter!” Lydia hisses, horrified.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware this was a sensitive topic. If you can’t talk to strangers about mutual experiences of being burned alive, what can you talk about, am I right?” Peter says with a sigh. Stiles bites back his response.

“In what universe is being set on fire not a sensitive topic?” There’s a hysterical edge to her voice as Lydia struggles to remain professional in the face of Peter’s antagonizing. Pleasure shines in his eyes as he looks at her, as if he’s getting exactly what he wants by causing her to patience to derail.

She quickly directs an apologetic look at Stiles, as if trying to imply that she hadn’t anticipated Peter acting like this. It’s hard to believe, since Stiles only met the man once many years ago, but he knows all too well how vile he can be. 

According to Laura, he used to be different before the fire. While he still had the same conniving nature, he also used to be softer. Gentler. Much more human than he is now. 

He had been kinder and happier. Supposedly.

The Hale Fire had burned his heart out, leaving behind nothing but charred, dead flesh that even his supernatural healing couldn’t fix.

“If it’s something we’re not supposed to mention, someone might want to send the black bird a memo. I hear it goes up in flames every few days,” Peter says casually.

“This isn’t what we’re here to discuss,” Derek speaks up for the first time since his arrival, his voice stern and expression displeased.

“Oh, but it is part of the point, actually.” Peter directs his cold gaze on Stiles, reminding him all too much of the detached look in Cora’s eyes. “I’ll be searching through your memories. If you’d prefer, I could also remove some.”

Stiles frowns, definitely not having expected that. “What do you mean?”

“I can remove memories that may cause you…discomfort. Remove them from you completely, so that it’ll be as if they never happened. The fire, perhaps. Laura’s death. Or Claudia’s,” Peter says, his tone a touch gentler and more serious than Stiles had thought him capable of.

Stiles’ eyes harden; the thought of him going through his memories, tampering with them in any way, puts him on edge. “No.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Very well.” Peter turns to Lydia and offers Derek a sly wink. “Shall we begin?”

Lydia takes a step towards Stiles as she addresses him, her tone back to being detached and professional. “Peter Hale, who you’ve met, is our agency’s highly trained Interrogator—”

“I also specialize in torture,” Peter cuts in, lifting his hands placatingly at Lydia’s venomous look. “Just thought it was worth noting.”

“He’ll be going through your memories, experiencing them as if he were you, right then at that moment. As you may or may not know, this process involves him digging his claws into the back of your neck,” Lydia explains. “It’s a highly invasive, last resort procedure due to the potential complications. If his claws enter the wrong part of your neck or get too close to your vertebrae, it could potentially paralyze you for life. If it doesn’t kill you.”

She takes a breath. “It’s also possible that he could get stuck navigating your mind, unable to escape. We need you to be aware that, while these possibilities are very rare, they can still happen.”

“Okay,” Stiles says through a dry throat. It’s not like he really has a choice here, he knows that much.

Lydia nods and moves on to the next part of her spiel. “Peter has been instructed to bear witness to your memories from both your last mission as well as the mission that resulted in Laura’s death. Do you consent to this?” Lydia asks.

“Yes,” Stiles croaks, palm sweating even before the ‘interrogation’ has fully begun.

“Will we just have to take Peter’s word for what he sees? Because I don’t exactly have the utmost faith in him,” Derek says.

Peter bares his teeth in a mock grin.

Lydia peers up at Peter, curiosity in her tone as she asks, “Is there a way for us to witness the memories as well?”

“I don’t know, Lydia. Do you happen to have some kind of supernatural projector on hand that we can use and somehow connect directly to Stiles’ mind? If not, then no,” Peter says, voice practically dripping with sarcasm.

The edges of Lydia’s mouth tug down and Stiles’ mind whirls with the possibility. He’s honestly not too sure that he trusts Peter enough to tell the truth about his memories either; at this point, anyone could be the one trying to frame him.

It’d be in his best interest to have as many witnesses to his memories as possible.

“I might have an idea for that, actually,” Stiles says. Three heads swivel towards him, a mixture of wary and surprised expressions.

“I mean, we’ve never tried it before; but, theoretically, Walmart could do that. He could shift into a black screen and show my memories through it like a movie screen. He’s connected to my mind,” Stiles says, trying to sound far more confident in the suggestion than he feels. It’s theoretically possible, but it’s entirely dependent on whether or not Walmart chooses to cooperate.

“That’s a nice idea, Stiles, but I’m not really interested in watching black figures on a black screen for however long this takes,” Lydia says delicately.

Stiles blinks at that. “Walmart can use color.” 

He’s honestly surprised that she doesn’t remember that, since she had been around the agency when Walmart used to incorporate vibrant colors in all of his shifts. But, then again, young Lydia never did pay anyone much attention back then. Natalie had kept her on a tight leash, preparing her to take over the company from an early age.

Like Stiles, she didn’t have much of a childhood, didn’t have the chance to play silly games with other kids or even have the opportunity to be responsibility-free.

A look of shock passes across her features. “Since when?” 

“Since always. He just developed a preference for black…” _after Claudia disappeared_. He doesn’t say that. It feels too much like betraying Walmart’s trust, though he’s not sure why. It’s not like the familiar has feelings or emotions, right? 

“I think he believes it makes him look more intimidating,” is what he says instead.

With a snap of his fingers and a simple thought of summoning his familiar, Walmart appears.

“You just have to ask him if he’s willing to help,” Stiles says to Derek, who appears startled by the sudden attention.

“Why do I have to ask?” Derek asks, affronted.

“He doesn’t like you very much right now and I’m not sure he’ll agree to help if you don’t ask him nicely,” Stiles says. 

“You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not. He’s quite sensitive and prone to holding grudges.”

Derek rolls his eyes— an action that, strangely, seems to require the use of his entire upper body. “Walmart, you weird little demon bird, I’m sorry I shot you. Will you please help us?”

Walmart rustles his feathers.

“He says he requests payment in plums,” Stiles translates.

“He didn’t even say anything,” Derek says, tone flat. 

“He doesn’t need to speak for me to understand him, Derek. We have a bond,” Stiles retorts.

“Can we start?” Lydia says. “This meeting has been nothing but ridiculously unprofessional so far.”

“I can guarantee it’s not likely to get any more professional from here,” Peter says honestly.

“Just. Start,” Derek grinds out.

And, with that, Stiles takes his seat and tries not to think about how much could go wrong. He grits his teeth to stop from crying out as Peter’s claws plunge into the back of his neck.

 

When he opens his eyes—  _when had he closed them?_ — it’s to solid darkness. There’s an odd shimmer to it, an almost-there hint of color to the blackness. He can feel Peter’s presence there with him, can feel Peter’s calm and his intent as he searches through Stiles’ mind for the memories.

The hint of colors begin to intensify and pull forward, extending into thick, tangible blocks that stretch out of the darkness. They start to blend and swirl together until a vision forms.

It’s from the day of the mission with Greenberg, he realizes, and then suddenly, there’s a tugging feeling in his chest and— it’s like he’s there again. No longer viewing the memory from the outside; he’s now back in it, reliving the thoughts, the feelings, everything he had seen and said. It’s all happening again, but this time with extra pairs of eyes watching with him.

He can feel Peter’s reactions as he experiences Stiles’ paranoia, the confusion and suspicion at seeing Greenberg, the hurt as his own partner turns on him. 

He can sense Peter’s surprise at Derek’s loss of control, something that had been left out of his report, and the way Stiles had protected him from Allison.

The memory slips by quickly, though it had felt so long at the time, and, before he’s prepared for it, the memory is stripping itself apart. The colors peel away and rearrange until they create a new image.

The image of Laura’s laughing face, the way Stiles had seen it on their last mission together.

He’s not ready for this, not ready to face the truth of it all; had he truly been at fault? Was he losing his mind? Or was there something else going on?

He’s not ready.

The memory plays anyway.

 

_Laura’s arm was slung around Stiles’ shoulders as they walked. She was a few inches taller than him, than most agents actually, and loved to point it out as often as she could. Her head swung back as she howled with laughter at the end of Stiles’ story._

_Matt and Lucas were a few paces ahead of them, heads bent low as they talked about some new episode of a TV show that had aired the night before._

_It was a beautiful, clear night with stars shining brightly as they strolled down an unlit street, along a path towards an abandoned train station where a kanima had supposedly been recently spotted._

_“This the place?” Matt asked as they arrived at the front doors._

_The building was huge and the facade was intricately designed, making it look more like an old church than a train station. Despite its beauty, it had been abandoned many years before due to structural issues and the city had decided it wasn’t worth repairing. Even so, it remained a popular place for people to visit due to its old style, intricate stairwells, and vast, empty floors._

_“This is it,” Greenberg confirmed through their CommUnit, voice loud and clear in their ears. “The target was last seen around this time last night.”_

_Laura and Lucas, both possessing supernatural strength and some common courtesy towards their less strength-inclined partners, pushed the heavy doors open. Matt and Stiles donned their night vision glasses to help them see in the unlit building while Laura and Lucas simply used their supernatural eyesight._

_“Be careful and keep your eyes open for any movement or sounds, there aren’t any security cameras here; I can only see what you all do. So just be careful. Kanimas are incredibly stealthy and are also nocturnal so they have no issues seeing in the dark,” Greenberg instructed, his voice going oddly stilted and awkward as he continued, “and also… their nails contain a… um. What’s that word? It’s some kind of p… Ugh, forget it. It’ll paralyze you if it touches you, okay?”_

_“Were you reciting that from a book?” Laura asked._

_“It’s possible,” Greenberg mumbled._

_“We need to work on your reading skills, I think,” Lucas said softly. He’d always been the quiet one among all of the agents._

_“We weren’t all lucky enough to graduate middle school, you know,” Greenberg grumbled._

_“Can we focus on the mission? Thanks,” Matt sniped._

_Greenberg sighed in their ears, but said, “Go ahead and split up. You’ll have more luck finding it that way.”_

_Stiles’ heart pounded in his chest as he gripped his gun and wandered through the eerie quiet of the station. He’d always hated splitting up._

_He headed for the far left stairwell while Lucas took the right, both of them heading up towards the second floor. Matt and Laura both continued straight on the main floor._

_Moonlight shone in through some of the windows, kindly bathing the marble steps in soft light._

_He strode quietly up the stairs, keeping on the balls of his feet to minimize sound. Windows lined the stairwell and the sight of something glinting in the moonlight quickly caught his attention. He moved closer to the windows, eyeing the familiar shiny black dust that lined the sills._

_It was mountain ash._

_On all of the window sills._

_Stiles turned his head and opened his mouth to call out a warning, only to be stopped by something harsh and blunt slamming into his temple. It knocked him off his feet and his head smacked into the ground, the impact sending his vision violently reeling._

_Shakily, his hand reached up to his temple, coming away bloody. He groaned at the blurry sight of red and he hoped it wouldn’t be anything requiring stitches. He really hated getting stitches._

_It felt worse than any concussion he’d ever had before. He couldn’t seem to make the spinning stop, couldn’t seem to get his eyes to focus or regain his composure._

_“Stiles?! What was that? Are you okay?” Greenberg asked, tone frantic. Stiles flinched at the loudness of it, at the sharp ringing in his ear that it caused. Disoriented, he tugged the metal device from his ear and flung the CommUnit away as Greenberg continued his anxious questions._

_As he struggled to sit up, a blurry pair of familiar SUPE-regulated boots came into view, the heel coming down and crushing the CommUnit under it. Stiles tried to lift his head to see the rest of the figure, but a flash of sharp pain tore through his skull and he cried out, grasping at his head, desperate to make it stop._

_A hand reached down, fingertips brushing gently against his forehead as if offering a sympathetic caress, and then they picked up Stiles’ fallen gun._

_As quickly as the boots had come into view, they moved away._

_As soon as they were gone, there was a sound of wings flapping. Walmart landed in front of him, beady eyes curious as he shoved his beak in Stiles’ face. His claws gouged deeply into the flesh of his arm and a rough scream tore through him; but the pain centered him and Walmart anchored him, the familiar pushing magic into his veins to help him focus._

_He pushed himself to a standing position, albeit slightly clumsily and still not feeling quite right. Through the low ringing in his ears, he could hear the sounds of yelling and gunfire coming from the floor below._

_“Stiles!” Laura shouted, voice piercing through the noise. “What the fuck is going on?!”_

_“Go help Laura,” Stiles demanded and Walmart vanished with a puff of black smoke._

_Stiles dashed down the steps, eyes going wide at the sight of Lucas’ dead body strewn across the bottom of the steps._

_Laura stood nearby on the main floor, half-shifted and fighting against the kanima, her gun discarded on the ground just feet away. Stiles made a dash for it, but the kanima got there first, its tail wrapping around it and flinging it into the distance with a faint clang._

_“Where the fuck are Matt and Lucas?!” Laura snarled, voice slightly distorted from her fangs._

_“Lucas is dead,” Stiles answered breathlessly, stepping to stand beside her. “I don’t know where Matt is. But there’s someone other than the kanima here. Or something.”_

_The kanima was a vile creature, like a lizard-person created in a secret laboratory experiment gone wrong. Its eyes were a sickly yellow, the look in them uncomfortably self-aware. Despite their intelligence, kanimas relied heavily upon a master to tell them what to do; and, judging by the way it had been attacking Laura without hesitation, it was likely this one wasn’t in search of a master._

_The creature hung on the wall, its sticky fingertips keeping it secure despite gravity’s influence. Walmart was lunging at it repeatedly, clawing at its face as the kanima hissed angrily._

_After many attempts, the kanima’s claws finally managed to make contact, slicing through Walmart, but the bird simply faded away and reappeared in another spot in the air, surging forward to resume its barrage of attacks._

_Stiles raised his hands, ready to put an end to this, when he’s stopped at the feel of Laura’s hand on his arm._

_“We need it alive,” she said and Stiles nodded at the reminder._

_He returned his focus to the monstrous reptile and believed that the kanima was encased in a barrier, trapped and unable to escape. A thin green glimmer started to form around the creature, slowly solidifying until it could no longer move or reach out towards Walmart._

_“Please tell me you have an idea on how to get out of here, because this is all I’ve got and it’s not going to last long,” Stiles said warningly, his hands burning so badly he was almost certain the skin on his palms was actually blistering and peeling._

_The barrier flickered as the kanima swiped furiously against it and Stiles felt nerves flutter in his gut. He could probably hold it for a half hour tops, but that certainly wasn’t enough time to transport the kanima safely to the agency; it had been a four hour drive just to get here._

_“It should be fine if you can keep it up until the van arrives. They probably have a cage for transporting it, right?” Laura said, though he could hear the doubt in her voice._

_Stiles grit his teeth as a feeling of pressure suddenly built in his head, the skin around his eyes feeling uncomfortably tight and his ears like they needed to pop. He shook his head and scrunched his eyes shut for a moment to clear it._

_It didn’t help._

_“Can the van get here ASAP?” Stiles asked through clenched teeth._

_“Greenberg? Can you make that happen?” Laura asked softly, though Stiles wasn’t able to hear his response without his CommUnit._

_Stiles glanced back up at the kanima, leaping back with a cry of shock as it registered what he was seeing._

_The kanima was gone._

_And so was Walmart._

_Somehow, in a way Stiles hadn’t known was even possible, the kanima had managed to escape the magic barrier._

_But how?_

_He dropped the barrier, not wanting to waste his energy; his eyes frantically searched the shadows around them for any sign of the creature. But it was gone._

_“No!” Laura cried, grabbing his arm in alarm, her eyes wide and panicked. “Stiles, what are you doing?!”_

_“It’s gone!” Stiles said, equally freaked out. “I don’t know how it escaped. I had it contained!”_

_“It’s not gone! You just let it go!” Laura shouted back, confusion and desperation evident in her voice._

_“No, I didn’t. It disappeared before I pulled my magic back,” Stiles said, clear on what he had seen_

_“It’s still on the wall! What are you talking about?” Laura said, gesturing wildly at the wall._

_Stiles followed her eye-line, but was met with the sight of nothing more than an empty wall. His heart and head throbbed as bewilderment and anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. What was going on?_

_“There’s nothing there,” Stiles insisted, trying to force himself to remain calm as he turned back to face Laura and froze._

_Matt stood next to him, a conniving smile on his face and Laura passed out on the ground at his feet._

_“Sorry about this, Stiles. It’s nothing personal,” Matt said, his arm raised and gun pointed steadily at him._

_“Matt, what are you doing?” Stiles asked slowly, raising a placating hand as his mind raced._

_Still at his side, he clenched his right hand into a fist, trying to keep his movements slow and inconspicuous. He extended his middle and index fingers, keeping them held tightly together, and then pointed his thumb up._

_This plan was going to work._

_He had to believe that it would. The only way out of here was if he believed hard enough._

_“I’m sorry. I’ve got my orders,” Matt said simply, voice empty of any real emotion or regret._

_Stiles lifted his hand, imagining it were a loaded gun with a bullet ready and loaded inside. He fired at the same time that Matt shot his own._

_The impact came as a surprise. A hot pain flared through his stomach, feeling as if he’d been stabbed with a scalding iron poker. Blood poured out of the bullet wound and he couldn’t help but give in to the urge to touch it, to confirm that it really was there._

_Blood stained his hands and his stomach sank at the sight; his belief hadn’t been enough._

_From experience in the field, he knew that this was a wound he wouldn’t recover from. He couldn’t help but be pissed off at the thought that this, of all the missions he’d been on, was going to be the one that got him killed._

_He was going to die over trying to bring back a dumbass kanima._

_Stiles didn’t even like kanimas. He hated them, actually; hated them since he was a child thanks to growing up around Jackson Whittemore, the biggest douchebag and resident kanima at the agency._

_He blinked back into focus at the sound of Laura’s broken whisper of, “Stiles?”_

_He lifted his head, stunned to see Laura standing in front of him where Matt had been. Her eyes were filled with bewilderment and hurt, as if she, like Stiles himself, couldn’t comprehend what had just happened._

_Her hands were pressed tightly against her stomach, blood seeping out through her fingers and dripping down her body._

_Stiles, in his panic, rushed forward, heedless of his own injury. He frantically ripped off his shirt and pressed it against the wound and her hands, trying to stop the bleeding._

_“You’ll be okay, Laur. You’re okay. What—How did this—did Matt shoot you?” Stiles asked, barely about to choke out a coherent thought as he lowered her to the ground and kneeled beside her, maintaining pressure on the wound. His eyes darted rapidly across her unnaturally pale face, trying to understand how this had happened._

_Laura’s lips pulled down, her eyebrows pinching together. “You… did…” She gasped, blood starting to trickle out of her mouth as she talked._

_That was when Stiles realized that his hands, holding his shirt against her, were clean. He looked down, his stomach churning as he saw his unblemished torso, his black tattoos moving smoothly across his skin._

_There was no gunshot wound._

_“I don’t understand. I don’t understand. Matt was…” Stiles mumbled, starting to feel unhinged, his eyes moving frantically with his thoughts. “Matt was here. He had— there was a gun. He said— I didn’t—”_

_“Derek,” Laura choked out, gazing up at him with intent and grabbing tightly at his hand, blood staining her teeth red._

_“I can’t say I was expecting such cooperation, but your help has been greatly appreciated,” a feminine voice purred, interrupting them both._

_Stiles froze, dread filling him. He knew that voice._

_From years of reviewing tapes and from learning about her in training, he knew that voice incredibly well._

_The woman stood by the open doors of the train station. She was nothing but a dark silhouette against the backdrop of stars and deep blue sky, but Stiles recognized her anyway._

_Kate Argent. The daughter of Gerard Argent, the leader of the hunters. She advanced towards them and Stiles shot out his arm to attack, but Kate instantly vanished._

_Her laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls, making it seem as if she were simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. He stood up and stepped away from the now unconscious Laura, his head pounding in protest at the motion._

_“Aw, what’s wrong? You look sick.” The unexpected warmth of her breath against the back of his neck made his skin crawl and his body react instinctively, leaning forward to get away. He couldn’t even turn his head before he was thrown into a pillar, the impact knocking his breath violently from his lungs. He hit the ground, his face banging painfully into the marble. The taste of iron was bitter in his throat as he swallowed, blood from his nose dripping into his open mouth._

_A sudden screech echoed through the room and he opened his eyes to see Walmart reappear, surging down at Kate as she blocked him with her arm. The kanima rose from her side and charged after Walmart._

_Kate’s eyes shone with interest as she watched Walmart vanish and reappear, dodging the kanima’s attacks and responding with his own._

_“Oh, now isn’t that interesting,” she said, her smile bright as she gleefully glanced between Stiles and the bird. His familiar didn’t hold her attention for too long, however, and she refocused on where Laura was lying on the ground, still unconscious while her body attempted to heal._

_Stiles’ heart lurched as he realized his partner, even with her advanced supernatural healing, wasn’t going to heal fast enough to fend off Kate. She might not even heal fast enough to survive the wound._

_Stiles raised a quaking hand and Kate laughed at the pathetic attempt at stopping her. He ignored her mocking and silently begged his magic to come forward, to help him save Laura. But, instead of his magic tearing her apart like he’d wanted, a group of vibrantly colored butterflies burst from his palms. They fluttered around the open space, harmlessly circling Kate and the kanima._

_“He’s still trying, isn’t that cute? Look, I admire your spunk, kid. But it’s time you admit you’ve lost,” Kate said._

_She bent over Laura, pulled out the CommUnit from her ear, and flicked it onto the ground._

_“A parting gift to remember her by,” Kate said. Despite them being similar in build, she effortlessly picked up Laura’s lifeless body._

_Stiles started to drag himself forward, though his vision shifted and swayed, the pain in his head thundering in his ears with every minuscule movement he made._

_“Goodnight,” Kate said, suddenly above him. The last thing he saw was her vicious grin._

_Like a switch had been flicked off, Stiles’ world went black._

 

Stiles can feel it as Peter begins to pull out of the memory. He watches as the scene fades and a moving swirl of bright colors takes its place, but then—he feels Peter’s curiosity like it’s his own. He knows instantly when the decision is made to push back in, Peter having seen something else in the vibrant mixture of colors that caught his attention.

As the colors pull apart once more, they reveal a new scene, another memory being brought to life. The scene rapidly becomes clearer and clearer, but so do the incredibly strong emotions attached to it.

Anger. Pain, so much pain. Self-hatred. Fear. Wanting to die. Wanting it to end. 

_“Just kill me, kill me, make it stop! It hurts!”_

_Stiles was just ten years old, his entire body engulfed in flames as he screamed in agony. He was trying to beg for help, to plead for someone, anyone to just make it stop even if it meant killing him. He wasn’t sure if he was even able to get the words out, or if he was just choking on the smoke and ash that filled his lungs._

_He sobbed and watched through the flames as Claudia stood next to Deaton, both of them peering back at him with matching expressions of distress._

_Heather, much smaller yet still remarkably strong-willed, eyed the scene with determination as she held onto Claudia’s hand._

_“Stiles, you need to—”_

The memory instantly goes black as if it were a TV screen that had abruptly been unplugged and a scream rings out from somewhere far away. It’s a masculine, deep, and guttural sound, but so very familiar. 

The claws in Stiles’ neck are suddenly and violently torn away, painfully jarring him back to reality. His eyes snap open once he realizes the screaming is still happening and hadn’t just been in his head. 

Peter’s standing in front of him, his face ashen and his eyes stuck on a sight just over Stiles’ shoulder. Lydia watches the same spot, her eyes wide with alarm, and Derek’s fists are clenched, his head determinedly turned away. Stiles reluctantly turns in his seat to see what’s happening, though he already has a good idea as to what it is.

He hates being right. 

Walmart has, once again, shifted and engulfed himself in flames while he releases tortured screams. 

But it’s not like it usually is. 

Instead of an inky black figure or a grayscale person, Walmart has shifted with perfect color and flawless details. It’s a hauntingly realistic recreation, impossible to discern from the original, or, it would have been, if the original weren’t currently standing in from of him.

He has morphed himself into a perfect copy of Peter Hale, but with his clothes torn, burned, and barely hanging on by more than a few threads. He’s howling from the agony of being burned alive and overwhelming loss, areas of his body charred and burnt while others are raw and red as they blister and rise from his skin. The skin on the right side of his face begins to sag as it melts, giving his blue eyes the illusion of bulging outward due to the sunken appearance of the melted skin around them. 

Cradled in his arms is the limp body of a woman, her skin stained gray from the smoke and ash. It’s instantly clear that she’s dead and Peter is mourning her, his cries filled with more internal pain than external.

Voices shout in the background, sounding faint and far away even as their words echo in the room. 

_“Daddy!”_ It’s the voice of a young girl, her voice filled with panic. _“Daddy!”_

_“Peter,”_ a woman calls out, voice rough as if having inhaled too much smoke. _“Save her.”_

A child steps out then from behind where she’d been hiding behind Peter’s legs, her body and clothes completely charred and blackened, giving her the surreal appearance of a child formed out of charcoal. 

_“Why couldn’t you save me?”_

Peter, the real one, watches the scene unfold in unmitigated horror, seemingly incapable of looking away even as a wounded noise escapes him. 

Knowing that Peter Hale had lost both his wife and child in the fire Kate Argent had set, that he had experienced severe burns on over 90% of his body for months until his self-hatred had abated enough to allow his healing to finally kick in, and that Derek was currently witnessing this scene with an equal amount of self-contempt, is enough to finally get Stiles out of his seat.

Walmart is angry, that much is clear. He’s always been a vengeful creature, and Peter had crossed the line when he’d pried into memories he had no business looking into. 

But this is a step too far.

“That is enough,” Stiles says, not unkindly. 

Walmart-Peter’s mouth snaps shut like it always does when Stiles speaks. He cocks his head slightly, as if not understanding this response. It’s possible that he doesn’t; he never really seemed to grasp the concept of ‘going too far’. His eyes fill with black as he stares back at Stiles in curious silence, as if to say _“don’t you see how alike we are?”_

“That’s enough,” Stiles repeats, even gentler this time as he steps towards his familiar. “You’ve made your point. He made you angry, but I’m sure he’s sorry. Right?” Stiles directs the question over his shoulder.

“Yes. I am… sorry,” Peter rasps, voice rough as if remembering the feeling of ash stuck in his smoke-burned throat.

Walmart’s eyes never falter from Stiles. He simply watches and waits, the flames still flowing over his skin although it no longer seems painful. Stiles reaches out with his still-bound hands and snaps his fingers, a plum appearing in his hand with a flash of green.

Walmart’s gaze snaps down to the proffered fruit and he tentatively takes it, pulling it back slowly as if expecting it to be taken back at any moment. When Stiles doesn’t move at all, Walmart vanishes.

Stiles turns back to the others, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“Is he getting worse? I think he’s getting worse,” Lydia says shakily.

“Yeah, he is,” Stiles admits. 

“Peter, are you okay to continue with the session?” Lydia asks. 

Peter blinks and swallows thickly. He’s pale and clearly still shaken, but he nods anyway.

Lydia composes herself, standing straighter and adopting her usual an air of authority. “Very well then. Shall we discuss what we saw in his memories?”

“He shot Laura,” Derek says, his own face still pale and drawn tight from the recent scene. 

Stiles bites harshly on his tongue, keeping back a hurt sound. If Derek saw his memories, saw what happened, and still didn’t understand, then there was no hope of ever changing his mind. 

But then, Derek finishes, “But clearly he wasn’t aware that it was her in front of him.”

Stiles inhales sharply, absolutely stunned. Derek looks lost, as if overwhelmed by everything he’d seen in the past hour, but he doesn’t appear angry in the slightest. Not any more.

“I’m the only one here who experienced what Stiles was feeling at the time of those memories. It was very unpleasant. And disorienting. He wasn’t in his right mind, that much was clear to me.” Peter’s voice is calm, but with a sort of emotionless detachment to it, his tone less animated and smug as it had been before.

“It seemed like you were hallucinating, but everything was so realistic,” Lydia contemplates. “What would’ve caused that? A toxin? Something he breathed in?”

Peter shakes his head curtly. “If it were airborne, it would’ve affected the others. The effects seemed sudden too, so it wasn’t likely something he ingested before the mission.”

“Everything appeared to be normal until they hit him in the head,” Derek says, noting what Stiles hadn’t really considered. And, now that he mentioned it…

“It didn’t feel like any other concussion I’ve had before,” Stiles says, his thoughts racing at the implication. “And I have no idea what object they hit me with.”

“Maybe they didn’t hit you with anything,” Lydia speaks up. “Maybe they pushed something into you.”

“Like magic?” Derek asks. 

“They’re hunters, they don’t seek help from magic users,” Peter rebuffs.

“Then what if the object was laced with something? Cora’s nails were coated in kanima venom,” Derek says. “And they touched his head after he fell. Maybe they were putting a toxin on him.”

“I suppose that’s possible, but there’s no way to test for it,” Lydia says. “I can ask Deaton if he knows of any substance that might cause hallucinations through contact with the skin.”

She turns to Stiles with a small smile. “In the meantime, congratulations, you’re released from your suspension.”

At the words, the iron cuffs fall from his wrists, clattering to the ground.

It doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would. There’s still the hanging discomfort over Matt and the myriad of unanswered questions still running through his head. If he had been hallucinating, did that mean that Matt was innocent after all?

Or were those really Matt’s agency-regulation boots that crushed his CommUnit?

Peter and Lydia leave, revealing Scott and Heather still waiting outside, though they seem too engrossed in their conversation to notice the open door. Stiles starts towards them, ready to move on with the rest of his day and get something to eat.

Before he can leave, however, a light pressure on his arm holds him back. Derek’s standing with his shoulders scrunched up, eyes filled with something akin to shame as he withdraws the hand.

“Can I talk to you?” Derek asks with visible discomfort.

“Oh, uh, sure. What’s up, man?” Stiles says, not used to seeing Derek look so timid. He’s so used to Derek’s biting responses, his banter, and unamused glare, that being faced with him appearing so docile is unsettling.

“About the other week… when I…” 

“When you tried to kill me?” Stiles finishes with a teasing smile, though it droops at Derek’s wince. That’s not right. He’s not supposed to look guilty. He’s supposed to argue back and say that it only got to that point because Stiles’ fighting skills are lacking or whatever other insult he can come up with.

Instead, Derek surprises him even further by saying, “Yes. When I tried to kill you. You could have let Allison shoot me, but you didn’t. Why? Why didn’t you let her? I don’t understand.” 

His gray-green eyes bore into him as if he thinks he could discern Stiles’ motivations by staring intensely enough.

“I meant what I said. I won’t let another Argent kill one more Hale; not if there’s something I can do to stop it,” Stiles says, as if it were that simple. 

It’s only a partial truth, because it’s easier to say that than to admit, _“I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve when I saw you walk into the agency for the first time. I’d probably even forgive you if you did manage to kill me, but I’d come back as a ghost to haunt your ass for eternity. And also just to check up on you and see how you’re doing, because I’d be a ghost that still loves you.”_

That might come off a little too strong.

But only just a little.

“I— Thank you for that,” Derek says slowly. “And… I’m… sorry.”

“Wow, that actually looked like it was painful to say. Look— you don’t have to apologize to me,” Stiles says, uncomfortable with this shift in their usual dynamic. 

He doesn’t want Derek’s apology. He can’t do anything with an apology.

Derek frowns at him, clearly determined to disagree with that. “I do have to. I lost control and went after you with the intent of killing you. That is unacceptable.”

“It’s not like it was out of the blue though. You threatened to shoot me in the head on our first mission together; it’s not like it was a surprise you actually tried,” Stiles says, tone light, trying to make it sound more humorous than it was.

Something flickers across Derek’s face at that— hurt maybe. Or guilt. 

It better not be more guilt. Stiles’ jaw clenches in discomfort. 

He has no problem with talking about feelings and emotions; he’s had countless deep conversations with his friends here at the agency, but, standing here with Derek awkwardly trying to make amends, is just miserable.

He hates this tension between them, the shame and self-loathing reflected in Derek’s eyes. He doesn’t want Derek’s pity and he certainly doesn’t want his awkward apologies.

He just wants Derek; and for Derek to want him back. 

“I should never have said that,” Derek says. “I didn’t even mean it. I was angry. I was… grieving, but that’s still no excuse.”

Stiles shrugs, his eyes dropping to the floor to avoid the intensity of his gaze. “I didn’t really blame you for it. It sucked to hear, yeah, but I understood.”

“You shouldn’t—” Derek starts vehemently, but cuts himself off and exhales sharply through his nose before trying again, this time with more calm. “You shouldn’t act like your partner threatening to kill you is nothing.”

Stiles blinks and licks at his lower lip as he thinks about what he wants to say. He lifts his chin when he settles on his reply.

“Laura was your anchor, right?”

Derek appears confused by the subject change, but nods.

“My mom was mine. Until she left and that little asshole bird became my new anchor,” Stiles says, rubbing at his neck, embarrassed to be admitting this at all. “And he’s not exactly the most stable, you know? Sometimes I feel like I’m anchoring him as much as he is me. But, when my mom left, he was all I had to keep me grounded.”

“Not Heather?” Derek questions softly.

“Heather was grieving in her own way. She couldn’t handle on my problems on top of her own teenage angst,” Stiles says. “My point is that, without Walmart there, I would have lost control countless times. I still did, on occasion, as I’m sure you remember…” 

Stiles’ cheeks heat at the memory of Derek having talked him down from a panic attack once a few years before. He had been eighteen at the time and just about to graduate from training and join the agency when Derek had found him in the middle of a panic attack, unable to calm himself down. The thought of graduating without Claudia there, knowing how she had felt about the agency, knowing that this wasn’t the path she had wanted for him—it had suddenly felt like too much for him to bear. But Derek, who had never spent more than five minutes with Stiles before then, had found him and stayed with him, talking to him until the panic subsided.

Needless to say, it wasn’t his fondest memory.

Derek nods again, a somber look in his eyes at the memory.

“You lost Laura: your sister, your best friend, your anchor. And you thought I had betrayed her; virtually everyone did, understandably so. And was that shitty? Hell yeah. But I understood. I knew why they thought that and I don’t blame you for losing control. I don’t blame you for hating me or threatening me or wanting me dead. I get that, because I wanted to kill me too. I blamed me too,” Stiles says, determined. His voice wavers as he confesses, “I still do.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Derek says gently. 

Stiles blinks rapidly, a lump forming in his throat. “Yeah.” He says with a bitter smile. “Except I was the one who freed a kanima, shot Laura with a magic bullet, and let Kate Argent get away with them both.”

Derek doesn’t have an answer to that, but Stiles hadn’t expected him to. 

Instead, Derek says, with quiet sincerity, “I wasn’t the only one who lost her though. She was your best friend too. You were suffering too and I made it worse for you these past few months. I know I can’t take it back, but I am sorry. I need you to know that _I’m sorry.”_

Stiles is speechless, his mouth parted in soft surprise. This may just be the longest conversation that he and Derek have ever had, and the most civil one as well.

“You were hurt and grieving,” Stiles offers, not wanting Derek to agonize over this. They were both in a bad place mentally; both of them did and said things they didn’t mean.

Now he wants to move on; to move forward.

“So were you,” Derek patiently points out. “That doesn’t make what I did any less awful.”

Stiles nods at that, accepting his apology and not knowing what else there is to say about it.

Maybe there isn’t anything more to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS/SPOILERS:** Walmart morphs into Peter and sets himself on fire. He forces Peter to relive/see his dead wife and the charred body of his daughter. _Walmart has issues._
> 
> Some questions are starting to be answered! What did you think of the Laura mission reveal? 
> 
> 9/21 EDIT: Ch 6 will not be posted this week due to my laptop’s abrupt and unexpected death :(


	6. Equinox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Safe/sane magic-related self-harm. (AKA blood magic).

The cafeteria is unfortunately packed, the lunch rush having started as soon as they'd left the interrogation room.

“Some mashed potatoes and chicken, please,” Heather says to the lunch lady. “By any chance, do you guys have extra garlic that I could have on the side? A lot of it, please… Oh, no, it doesn’t have to be minced… Yeah, the whole thing is fine… Load it on there. Thank you so much!”

The cafeteria worker obliges and drops a handful of garlic cloves on Heather’s meal tray, though she looks rather bemused by the request.

“Thanks again!” Heather calls out cheerily as she, Scott, and Stiles head over to their mercifully still-vacant table.

They drop their trays and slide into their usual seats, instantly shoveling runny mashed potatoes and bland chicken breast in their mouths. Scott sits in his usual seat opposite Stiles and, as he raises his fork to his mouth, Stiles notices something glinting around his wrist.

“Dude, are you wearing a bracelet?” he asks. 

Scott freezes, his fork of mashed potatoes hovering before his lips.

“Uh… maybe,” Scott says, his ears and cheeks tinged with pink. 

Stiles reaches out and tugs Scott’s arm closer, ignoring his squawk of protest as his fork clatters onto the table. A thin silver chain with an elegant arrow charm placed in the middle of it dangles around his wrist.

The ends of Stiles’ lips pull into in a genuine smile. Scott doesn’t buy jewelry and he'd only wear it if someone had gifted it to him; and, it just so happens that there’s only one agent who uses a bow and arrow. 

“Oh, it’s cute, I like it,” Heather says, having nosily moved closer to see.

“Thanks, Allison gave it to me,” Scott gushes with his lovesick grin.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, trying not to get his hopes up. Does this mean his two friends are finally done circling around each other, waiting for the other to make the first move?

“Yeah, she was really impressed when I pushed President Finstock out of the way of a bullet. She was super worried and freaking out, thinking I’d been shot, but I was fine,” Scott recounts, eyes glazed over. “She said I did great and then she asked me on a date.”

“You got shot at?! Why didn’t I hear about this before? I know I took the early van back to base, but that was a week and a half ago!” Stiles exclaims, mind stuck on this not-so-minor detail.

“Didn’t wanna make it a big deal.” Scott shrugs, as if nearly getting shot was a common occurrence. Which, okay, might be a fair point. “Besides, you were wrapped up in doing paperwork and statement before the interrogation. I figured I’d tell you when the investigation was finished.”

“Aw, you’re the best. And I’m so happy for you two,” Stiles says honestly, a warmth spreading through him at the genuine excitement on his best friend’s face. He and Allison deserved to be together, to be happy and in love after all their years pining for each other.

Scott beams at him. “Thanks. We’re talking about going to the Outside soon for our first date if things don’t get too busy before then.”

Stiles’ smile falters slightly, but he manages to maintain it well enough. Of course he’s thrilled for them, but he can’t help but feel a little sting of resentment at the mention of being able to casually visit the Outside while Stiles has never even been given the chance. 

Heather doesn’t bother to hide her bitterness. “Wow, a date to the Outside, how exciting! Wish I knew what that was like,” she says with sarcasm so thick it's practically tangible.

“Right. I’m sorry.” Scott has the decency to look contrite, his brown eyes wide and apologetic. 

Stiles offers him a forgiving nod, though Heather doesn’t acknowledge it, her attention turned to a slip of paper she’d removed from of her pocket. She scribbles a few hasty notes, crossing off some items.

Cora plops down between Stiles and Heather, once again stealing his ice cream and beginning to eat it before he can protest.

“Seriously?” Stiles whines. “It’s finally cookie dough day. I love cookie dough day…”

Cora lifts a brow, holding out the already half-eaten container towards him. How had she managed to eat half of it already? Do werewolves not get brain freeze?

Stiles sighs dejectedly and waves it away, accepting that today’s meant to be a crappy day. He picks up his fork and digs into his meal.

“Shoot, I forgot to ask if they had any Ginnysnouts for the ritual! Be right back,” Heather exclaims, quickly shoving the paper back in her pocket as she hops out of her seat in an excited rush.

“Is there a reason why you’re gracing us with your presence? Don’t you normally sit with your brother?” Stiles asks her as he chews.

“I can’t deal with his brooding and angst. It’s starting to suffocate me,” Cora replies, licking the last remains of melted ice cream from the container.

“Brooding? Over what?” Scott asks, curious.

“He feels bad about… y’know. You. The last mission,” Cora says to Stiles.

“I was cleared from my suspension less than an hour ago. How much brooding could he possibly have fit into that timeframe?” Stiles asks, disbelieving. “Besides, we parted on good terms. All was forgiven.”

“What are you talking about?” Cora looks at him like he has two heads. “He’s been moody and brooding for almost two weeks. He felt awful about losing control and attempting to strangle you.”

“And, as I said, I forgave him since he recently lost his anchor; but, I’d like to point out that he technically lost control _after_ having tried to shoot me. Multiple times,” Stiles states.

“That’s a good point,” Scott manages to say, his chubby chipmunk cheeks stuffed with food, bits of chicken dropping back onto the plate.

Cora curls her lip in disgust.

“You’re a werewolf, not an actual wolf,” she snaps at him and then, says to Stiles, “He tried to shoot you, sure, but he didn’t aim for any vital organs or your head. He was aiming for your knee or shin to take you out of commission.”

“You can’t excuse someone shooting at me! What’s next? ‘Yeah, he tried to shoot you, but he was only trying to shoot you with _love’_ ,” Stiles rants, promptly shoving a scoop of food in his mouth.

“I mean, if _that’s_ what you kids are calling it these days…” Cora says suggestively.

Stiles chokes, eyes watering as Cora smacks him on the back with more force than necessary. He coughs as his airway clears and groans, knowing his back will be covered in bruises tomorrow thanks to her “help”.

“You okay?” Scott asks.

Stiles offers a thumbs up as Cora withdraws her hand and picks a piece of chicken from his plate, completely unruffled by Stiles’ near death experience.

“You lost your entire family at eleven years old and were tortured by hunters for who knows how long. You should not be this funny,” Stiles says with squinted eyes, pointing at her accusingly with his fork.

“If it’s true that you can perform crazy feats of magic just by wiggling your fingers, then why haven’t you magically made yourself funny?” she tosses back.

Scott watches the exchange, his head swiveling back and forth between them as they banter.

“I know you didn’t graduate middle school, so you may have missed this lesson— but words hurt, Cora,” Stiles says.

“I can guarantee my claws hurt worse. If you want to keep going, we can test it out,” she responds and raises a middle-finger, the blunt nail instantly becoming a claw as sharp as her grin.

Stiles goes to retort, but is distracted by the sight of Derek sitting down at his usual table across the room, acting like normal. In fact, there’s nothing unusual about him at all, including the hostile glare that is, for some unfathomable reason, _still_ being directed at Stiles.

Stiles quickly casts a spell for privacy and a barely-noticeable green shimmer surrounds their table.

“I thought you said he was feeling moody and guilty, not pissed off!” Stiles hisses accusingly at Cora.

Cora shifts her gaze over to Derek and then back to Stiles, her eyebrows furrowing slightly.   
  
“Yeah…” she says slowly, “that’s his look of emotional constipation.”

“His what?” Scott laughs.

“The look on his face he gets when he’s feeling too many emotions at once and it causes his face to shut down,” Cora states casually. “It’s what some people call a ‘resting bitch face’, I think.”

“‘Resting bitch face’? Who even says that?” Scott questions.

“Erica said I had it,” Cora says.

“What do you mean by ‘feeling too many emotions’ exactly?” Stiles pries, having stopped listening after that part of the sentence.

“Things like regret, sadness, and anger— though that’s usually towards himself,” Cora says. “In this case though, I’d guess it’s more like… lust, pining, and desire.”

Stiles’ brain short circuits at that and he blinks owlishly at her. She’s confused. She must be, because that made absolutely no sense. _Negative_ amounts of sense.

“No, no, that’s his ‘I hate you and want to punch your face in’ expression,” Stiles insists.

“Uh, no it isn’t.” Cora seems puzzled by the vehemence in his tone, clearly not comprehending the fact that Stiles has known Derek for years. He’s seen that hostile expression far longer than she has. He knows what it means. 

“Yes, it is! He’s looked at me that way for _years_ ,” Stiles snaps.

“Oh? Even before Laura died?” Cora asks, a sudden spark of interest in her eyes.

“Yes, even before that. He hated me when I was a kid and never looked at me except for when I’d piss him off,” Stiles recounts with a grimace, not proud of the bratty kid he used to be.

He had no sense of boundaries when he was younger, having had no real friends or understanding of appropriate behavior toward’s one’s crush. He had been obsessed with Derek, often trailing after him in the halls and nagging him incessantly until he’d get a reaction, be it negative or positive. It was never positive. 

He’s ashamed to admit that he’d pestered Derek for two and a half years before he finally stopped. Claudia’s abrupt disappearance had hit him hard, sending him spiraling down into a hole of depression and anger. For the first time, Derek was actively reaching out to him, trying to talk to him with sympathetic eyes, but Stiles had pulled away and buried himself in his studies instead. 

It was the lowest point in his life and, to his ongoing shame, he broke down a few times and took his anger out on Walmart, screaming and throwing objects at the bird until he disappeared, leaving Stiles to stew in his desolation alone. 

He wallowed in that pit of misery for a long time. He’d lost interest in everything he’d once enjoyed; he no longer participated in rituals with Heather, deleted all his excitedly scribbled notes on places he wanted to visit in the Outside, and stopped entertaining the fantasy of gaining Derek’s love and approval.

On more than one occasion, he had lost control of his magic, setting his bed on fire multiple times before Deaton got the hint and put a fire extinguisher in his closet. Thankfully most of the fires had been small and, for those that weren’t, Walmart eventually appeared to put them out.

Despite his cruel treatment of the bird, Walmart dutifully kept returning. He was the only living thing in Stiles’ life that he consistently interacted with during his depression. Not that he had much choice in the matter, since locks and solid walls had no effect on Walmart.

He can’t imagine how much worse things would have turned out if Walmart hadn’t been there to ground him.

Stiles quietly dispels the thoughts and continues, “He only really started tolerating me after Laura and I became partners, though that’s when the scowling began. Obviously, he went back to hating me after what happened to Laura, and dealt with that by refusing to acknowledge my existence until Harris forced him to partner with me.”

“I see. So you’re telling me that my brother ‘glared’ at you before Laura died. Which means that you made him feel things. Things like sexual frustration, hunger, desire, perhaps _.”_ Cora states with a little smirk. “Just a few likely possibilities.”

Likely possibilities? Nope. Not a chance. Cora is clueless.

“No, definitely none of those. More like: anger, annoyance, anger, hatred, anger—”

“You said anger three times.”

“He’s literally _never_ liked me,” Stiles says with emphasis. “He’s despised me since I was twelve. He used to push me into walls and threaten to rip my throat out with his teeth— not that I blame him; I was pretty creepy.”

“That’s interesting, considering he smells like low-level arousal whenever he’s around you. _Especially_ when you use your magic. Apparently that’s a huge turn on for him,” Cora says faux-casually, a mischievous glint in her eye suggesting that she knows she’s completely demolishing Stiles’ worldview, forcing him to rebuild a new perspective from the rubble and ruins. 

“He what?!” Stiles exclaims, wincing at his own volume. Thank goodness he had the foresight to put up a silencing charm. He tries again, but his voice still comes out alarmed. “He _what?”_

“Smells like arousal around you,” Cora says, condescendingly slow. “Usually anger too, but a lot less of that in the past week or so.”

“You never told me Derek smelled like arousal around me,” Stiles growls at Scott, who had been following the exchange with rapt attention.

He scrunches his nose, as if Stiles demanded he smell his unwashed gym bag after a month of heavy sparring sessions. 

“Is that what that smell is? I thought it was some awful cologne.”

“I take it all back! You are the worst werewolf,” Stiles wails, not overly dramatic in the slightest.

But, if he were being dramatic, nobody could blame him for it. He’s just found out that the guy he’s been obsessed with for years might return his feelings.

“Take what back?” Scott asks, unbothered by Stiles’ dramatics.

“All of the nice things I’ve thought or said about you being a good werewolf. All of them!” 

“You told people you thought I was a good werewolf?” Scott asks, voice pleasant and pleased. “Aw. I didn’t know that. Thank you.”

Stiles groans and drops his head into his hands. “My mind has been blown. I don’t know what life is anymore. I think I’m having an existential crisis.”

“Derek would probably blow something else if you ask him nicely enough,” Cora says, apparently having no issues with discussing her brother’s sex life.

And that… wow.

His brain immediately supplies the image of Derek on his knees, angrily giving him a blowjob. His red eyes glare up at him and then flutter closed with a pleased hum, unable to hide his own enjoyment as the warmth of his mouth surrounds Stiles’— nope! Not going there. 

Stiles’ face heats, becoming an unflattering shade of red when he remembers he’s surrounded by supernatural beings with heightened senses of smell. He focuses on reciting a list of Walmart’s top five most disturbing episodes, eyes firmly shut as he tries to bury himself in his hands.

Even so, he can practically see Scott’s scrunched nose and Cora’s Cheshire grin.

“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Stiles declares, voice strained.

“Other than severe PTSD, depression, and the inability to form close relationships due to having lost everyone close to me at a young, developmentally important age?” Cora quips.

Stiles’ hands fall away in his shock. “Yeah. Other than… all that.”

“I’ll mention it in my next therapy session with Deaton,” Cora says.

That’s when the details of their discussion catch up to him. Anxiety flutters in his gut, but he squashes it down, not going to freak out without at least asking for some clarification.

His back straightens, his shoulders tense as he carefully asks, “Back to our previous topic... You know how you said he smells like arousal around me and that you think I make him feel, uh, frustrated…?”

“Sexually, yes,” Cora says, dragging it out in annoyance at having to repeat herself.

“So that means he probably wants to put his face on my face, but in a sexy way and not a let’s-grow-old-together kind of way?” Stiles asks, gnawing at his lip anxiously once the words have spilled from his mouth.

“I didn’t follow any of that,” Cora deadpans.

“He wants to know if Derek wants to date him or bang him,” Scott helpfully supplies. Stiles nods his head rapidly, pointing at him in agreement.

Cora’s gaze bounces between the two of them, her eyebrows slanted upwards and mouth parted as she thinks.

“I don’t know,” she says, frowning and pulling back when Stiles leans towards her.

“What do you mean you don’t know? You can’t smell it?” Stiles asks.

“No, Stiles. ‘I want to date you’ is not something I can smell,” Cora says snidely.

“Can’t you ask him?”

“Can’t you?”

Stiles’ jaw snaps shut. Yes, obviously, he could do that; but he’s harassed Derek enough over the years, hasn’t he? The idea of bringing up his feelings, reminding Derek of his younger self and how obsessive he used to be… it makes him queasy. 

He’d honestly rather pine from afar and die alone than make Derek that uncomfortable again.

“I’m not saying he doesn’t feel anything for you,” Cora starts, tone surprisingly gentle, “but I think that, if he did want more from you, he would have expressed it in some way by now.”

The fragile hope he’d been holding onto shatters, the jagged edges like sharp pin-pricks all over his skin.

“But maybe he expresses affection in a different way,” Scott says, remaining optimistic.

“If he had real feelings for me, he would have believed me,” Stiles says hollowly, disappointment weighing him down. 

If Derek’s feelings truly went deeper than lust, then he would have trusted Stiles, right? In the least, he would have sat him down to hear his side of what had happened, but he didn’t.

Stiles’ chest aches and the hurt spreads down to his fingertips. He pushes the rest of his uneaten meal away, his appetite gone despite only eating a meager amount. Scott’s clearly upset at Stiles’ self-pity, his shoulders slumped and eyes sympathetic.

“What’s going on? Stiles looks upset,” Allison comments as she takes her seat next to Scott. 

Instantly, Scott’s mood lifts. The two of them smile dopily at each other as if they don’t see each other all the time. 

It’s revolting.

Stiles might be a little bitter. 

“Stiles is having a breakdown,” Cora explains. It’s a clear oversimplification of a _highly_ complicated and delicate situation.

“Everything I know is a lie. Cora is funny and Derek…” 

“Derek what?” Allison prompts after Stiles cuts himself off with a pathetic whimper.

Heather sits back down, taking the open seat next to Cora. “Bad news. They don’t have any Ginnysnouts or Dumbleweed for tonight, but I was thinking we could replace the ingredients with… um… is everything okay?”

“I’m feeling really overwhelmed right now,” Stiles grumbles, because they would accuse him of being dramatic if he were honest and said that his heart is rotting inside his chest.

He and Derek were making progress; things were finally looking up— and then Cora goes and single-handedly crushes all hope.

“One might say he’s ‘feeling too many emotions at once’,” Cora unhelpfully supplies.

“I hate you,” Stiles says, hating that he can’t help but huff a laugh at that.

“He found out Derek wants to fuck him,” Cora continues, filling in the newly arrived. 

Scott looks distinctly uncomfortable with the crude announcement regarding his best friend, but Heather and Allison are both frozen in shock, both of them uttering a simultaneous, “Oh.”

“I’d go for it, if I were you. I bet his cock is huge,” Heather says. Scott groans, Allison stifles a giggle, and Cora cackles. 

Stiles knows Heather’s trying to lighten his mood, but it doesn’t help. He has been mooning over the same guy for _nine_ years and Derek, apparently, is attracted to him, but that’s it. Their situation hasn’t changed at all. Stiles is still trailing helplessly after the unattainable.

The question is, could he be happy with whatever Derek can offer him? Or should he cut his losses and focus his energy on moving on?

Stiles’ self-pity is quickly replaced by frustration— pure, unadulterated frustration. He _loathes_ making decisions. He'd rather avoid his problems until they go away.

A dying-whale sound escapes his throat and he plants his forehead on the table.

o0o0o0o

_Claudia stood with a wide smile on her face and a young girl, about nine years old, standing beside her. The girl’s eyes were a stunning pale blue, her long blonde hair tangled and unruly in the way that many young girls’ hair was before they learned how to properly tame it. She was thin and already dressed in SUPE clothes: basic navy blue pants and light gray polo, a navy blue jacket on top that was two sizes too big. Or perhaps she was two sizes too small._

_The girl’s hands clenched into fists as she stared at the boy in front of her._

_“Heather, this is Stiles. He knows this place like the back of his hand, so he can help show you around. Stiles, this is Heather. She’ll be training with us from now on,” Claudia introduced._

_Stiles glared at the girl, a scowl on his face. They didn’t need another witch, the two of them were doing fine._

_“Oh my, what an unfriendly smile. Is that how I taught you to greet new friends?” Claudia said pointedly, a shapely eyebrow raised._

_Stiles’ ears pinked at the gentle reprimand and he offered up a weak smile, though it likely came off much more like a grimace._

_“That’s… an improvement, I suppose,” Claudia said falteringly, as though she wasn’t very sure that was true._

_“How long have you been here?” Heather asked Stiles._

_Stiles shifted on his feet, not used to talking with strange children. At Claudia’s encouraging nod, he quietly answered, “Five years.”_

_“Five years?! What happened to your parents?” Heather pried, seemingly unaware of the rudeness of the question. Claudia’s eyes widened and she moved as if to interrupt, but Stiles spoke first._

_“Dunno. I don’t really remember. But I guess they didn’t want me,” Stiles said simply. Claudia frowned at that, and he knew it wasn’t because she was unhappy with him, but rather, she was unhappy for him._

_“That doesn’t bother you?” Heather asked, as if she couldn’t comprehend how that could be true. Stiles shrugged._

_“I think it’d be worse if they didn’t want me, but kept me anyway,” Stiles stated. “Besides, Claudia’s nice. And I get to study magic. That’s pretty cool.”_

_For a moment, Heather looked as if she were considering this._

_“Mine are coming back, you know,” she said with a defiant lift of her chin. Her red rimmed eyes were alight with challenge, daring him to contradict her and see what happened._

_“Your what?” Stiles asked._

_“My parents,” Heather said, glancing away. “My mom… she got mad at me, and my magic scared her sometimes, I think. But she loved me. She_ **_loves_ ** _me. She’s coming back.”_

_Stiles wanted to mock her, wanted to be the one to crush her attitude and tell her that this wasn’t a temporary place; it was a refuge for those that were in danger, given up on, or found orphaned. Nobody ever returned for them._

_He opened his mouth to say as much, but there was something in Claudia’s expression that stopped him. She was peering down at the young girl, an open look of devastation on her face; an expression that Stiles hadn’t understood at the time. But he knew, as an adult, that Claudia had been distressed for Heather. Her heart cracked at the desperate denial of a child struggling to stay strong in the face of the unknown. In the face of having been left behind, abandoned by her own mother, for something she couldn’t control._

_Heather’s eyes were steady on a wall off to the side and Stiles took in the defeated slump to her shoulders, the way she rhythmically clenched and unclenched her fists._

_He didn’t have to tell her anything. She already knew._

_“Do you know any spells?” was what Stiles said instead. Heather aimed a wary look at him, but took the bait._

_“I turned my step-dad into a lizard once,” she said hesitantly, as if not sure if that was something acceptable to do or not._

_Stiles nodded. “Cool, cool. Did you know there are spells that let you talk to reptiles?”_

_“Like in Harry Potter?” Heather questioned._

_“What’s Harry Potter?” Stiles asked. Heather gasped and looked scandalized._

_“You haven’t read Harry Potter? But ‘Order of the Phoenix’ has been out for a year already!” She wailed, overly dramatic, as if Stiles had told her his favorite pastime was blowing up libraries. “Don’t you guys have books here?”_

_“We have lots of books,” Stiles grumbled defensively, looking up at Claudia for assistance, not sure how to handle the girl’s upset. Claudia watched them both with an amused smile._

_“Non-spellbooks?” Heather inquired._

_“Why would you need non-spellbooks?” Stiles asked, confused._

_“I have one or two that you can read. And I’m sure Deaton or I could order some more books, if you have any requests, Heather,” Claudia offered._

_“Well, Harry Potter, duh. Oh! But also ‘A Series of Unfortunate Events’,” Heather started to list._

_“That sounds like an awful lot like a spellbook to me,” Stiles mumbled._

_“The eleventh book in the series is coming out in September!” Heather announced excitedly._

_“_ **_Eleventh_ ** _book?” Stiles repeated, scandalized._

_“I’ll have to think about more, but those two are my favorites,” Heather said to Claudia, her attitude dramatically improved from moments prior._

_“Make a list and we’ll make sure we get those for you. For now, I’ll talk to Deaton about getting…” Claudia trailed off, a little lost._

_“Harry Potter and A Series of Unfortunate Events,” Heather supplied._

_Claudia’s eyes grew warm again and she nodded. “Ah, yes. Those. In the meantime, Stiles, perhaps you can show her around?” Her tone rose in the way it did when she was disguising an instruction as a request._

_“Fine,” Stiles said, knowing he didn’t have much of a choice. He turned to Heather. “You wanna see my room? It’s pretty cool. You can see the New York skyline through my walls!”_

_“Why would you want that? New York stinks,” Heather asked, her face scrunched in displeasure._

_“Um, I wanted it because it’s_ ** _New_** **_York_** _. And you can’t smell it all the way out here, obviously,” Stiles said, annoyed that she didn’t seem impressed in the slightest. She’d probably been to New York before. His mouth twisted sourly at the thought. She got to experience it and didn’t appreciate it, while he won’t ever get to visit the city._

_Plus, it had taken him a month to be able to spell his walls correctly and he was really proud of the final result. He had blown holes through a few of them, and managed to make one completely disappear, to Claudia’s horror. She was unfortunately stuck magically repairing the holes and summoning walls back for him after he had accidentally banished them to another realm._

_“Yeah, I guess that sounds okay,” Heather reluctantly agreed, though she clearly wasn’t interested at all._

_It’s been only five minutes since they met and Stiles already disliked her. How was he going to survive being stuck with her all the time?_

_“I expect to see you both before lunch so we can walk to the cafeteria together!” Claudia called out as they started to walk away. Neither kid responded, both of them wrapped up arguing over which US city was the best._

  
o0o0o0o

  
It’s past midnight as they set up for the ritual. Heather’s on her knees, focused as she draws the pentagram on the wooden floor in white chalk while Stiles carries over a plastic blue bucket.  
****

“Think this will work?” he asks.

Heather glares at it, unimpressed. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s this or the bathtub. Walmart broke our cauldron during the Summer Solstice, remember?”

“How could I forget? My room was stained with blood for weeks,” Heather complains under her breath. 

At the time, she had been upset enough to declare that Stiles’ room would be the new ritual venue for the foreseeable future, a change that Stiles hadn’t minded at all. Walmart destroyed his room every week or so anyway; what’s another bloodstain or two?

“Well, Deaton hasn’t bought us a new one yet. This is the closest I could find,” Stiles says.

Heather lets out a forceful sigh, but nods and waves him away so she can complete the drawing. “It’ll have to do.”

Stiles leans back against his desk, watching as she works. Her shoulders are drawn up tight and she’s visibly upset, but clearly doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t have to, though, for Stiles to know what’s on her mind.

They delayed starting the ritual for over an hour, waiting patiently for Erica, only to realize that she wasn’t going to come. It’s the first ritual since she’d lost her magic and Stiles had wondered if she was going to show up or not. He’d correctly assumed she wouldn’t, knowing how much Erica resented her magic and felt like an outsider even among Heather and him. 

Unlike them, Erica had never met Claudia. She arrived at the agency a few years after Claudia disappeared, leaving her to train under Deaton instead. She had to go through magical training by herself, since Heather and Stiles were agents at that point.

Heather, on the other hand, had clearly expected Erica to still participate, which is why she’s muttering darkly as she drags the chalk harshly against the floor. He doesn’t need to be a werewolf to sense that she’s disappointed and hurt.

“It’s not because she doesn’t like you,” Stiles says, breaking the silence. Heather’s drawing slows down as she listens, shoulders still stiff. “She never did fit in with us, really. You can’t expect her to—”

“I didn’t expect her to do anything,” Heather bites out, resuming the diagram, outlining it with more force than necessary.

“Maybe not. But you wanted her to be here,” Stiles says.

“Of course I wanted her to be here, she’s one of us! Or was. I thought she might come, even if she doesn’t have her magic anymore,” Heather explains, her voice tinged with sadness as she adds, “I thought we were friends.”

She’s on her knees next to the completed pentagram, her hand gripped tightly around the chalk as it leaves traces of pale powder against her thigh.

“I should’ve known better. Witches don’t have friends,” she declares, voice strong with resolve as she stands.

“If we don’t have friends, what do we have?” Stiles asks, watching as she drops the replacement-cauldron in the middle of the drawing.

“The coven, our family,” Heather says. “We have our family and everyone else is a steaming pile of shit.”

“No friends, only family. Got it. And what about love?”

“I loved my birth-mom and she put me in here. I loved Claudia and she died. I love you and I’m stuck here. What has love done for me, Stiles?” Heather asks, voice desperate. “What has it done for _you?”_

Stiles doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make her feel better this time, because he can’t fault what she’s saying.

“Let’s get this over with,” Heather says wearily, rubbing her hand against her forehead and accidentally smearing the chalk across her skin. 

Stiles smiles softly at her, moving forward to wipe it off as she whispers a small, “Thanks.”

“I know this isn’t how you wanted it, but we can still do the ritual. It’ll still be good.” Stiles wraps his arms around her thin frame as she leans in, resting her head on his shoulder.

“The ritual won’t work without three witches,” Heather says, her voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

“We’ll have Walmart join us,” Stiles says simply.

Heather lets out a wet laugh, her hands clinging to him. “It doesn’t work like that and you know it. It has to be three witches.”

“Erica’s not a witch anymore. It wouldn’t have mattered if she were here or not,” Stiles points out.

“It might’ve. We don’t know for sure,” Heather says and pulls away, wiping at her damp eyes as she takes her seat at one of the points of the pentagram.

“Heather, why are you so upset about this?” Stiles asks, puzzled. It’s unlike her to be this particular about a ritual.

“I wanted to ask for blessings,” Heather admits, her eyes steady on the cheap bucket while he sits down at the point opposite her. “Important ones.”

“Okay…”

“You know how Erica told me, before she was bitten, that she was going to do it? Because she thought it was fair that I know?” Heather hedges, voice carefully giving away nothing.

Stiles’ stomach sinks anyway, a coldness seeping through him.

“Yeah. You told me,” he says, voice low. Heather’s eyes bore into his, as if pleading for him to understand. 

Imploring him to forgive her.

“ _Oh_. When?” Stiles asks, voice heavy with sorrow. This is it then; Heather's finally decided to leave. Once she's gone, he’ll be all that remains of his coven.

He’ll be alone, the only witch left at the agency’s beck and call.

“Soon,” Heather replies. “I thought you deserved to know.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know yet,” Heather says. “It doesn’t matter where I go. Anywhere is better than here.”

“Is it really that unbearable?” Stiles asks, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“This isn’t a haven. This is a chessboard and we’re the pawns. Natalie Martin doesn’t care about building a refuge, she never did. She wants revenge against the hunters, no matter the cost. Mom was right,” Heather rants. “Natalie makes us do her bidding, but where is she? Hiding away somewhere, afraid of facing us and seeing us as real people!”

“We have food, shelter, friends…”

“Witches don’t have friends, Stiles!” Heather yells, losing her composure. “We have people who will either disappoint us now or later.”

“And the Outside is so much better?” Stiles snaps.

“Yes! It is!” Heather shouts back. “At least out there I can make my own choices in life!”

Stiles swallows his retort and deflates as his anger leaves him. It isn’t worth fighting over, not when she’s made up her mind. She’s always been incredibly stubborn. He doesn't want this to end with a fight or angry words they won’t be able to take back. Heather comes to the same conclusion, her expression and voice softening.

“This isn’t what Mom wanted for us,” Heather says.

“It’s different for you than it is for me. You spent nine years of your life in the Outside; the agency is all I remember,” Stiles says.

Silence falls between them, both of them having said their piece.

As if sensing that the fight has ended, Walmart _poofs_ into existence, standing directly on the point at the top of the pentagram, completing their triangle.

It’s time for the ritual to begin.

Heather starts rifling through her bag, pulling out small bundles of wadded up napkins wrapped around garlic, rosemary, sage, basil, and a few other various spices and ingredients.

“The cafeteria didn’t have Mugglewood or Potterwort either, but I think we’ll be okay without it,” Heather says. “I’m going to ask the moon and universe for blessings of protection and safety. I’ll be offering a sacrifice, but you don’t have to.”

“You know I will,” Stiles says. 

Heather smiles at him gratefully. He waves a hand and the candles of various shapes, sizes, and colors all around the room flicker to life as the lights turn off. 

Candles aren’t a necessary part of the ritual, but they help them focus and be present in the here and now as they practice their magic, surrounded by nothing but minimal light. 

“And now we’ll start,” Heather says, slightly breathless, a hint of excitement finally starting to show in her eyes. She dumps the various ingredients into the makeshift cauldron, discarding the napkins so they don’t interfere with the mixture.

Heather’s eyes remain their beautiful blue as she recites the incantation for blessings. It’s a quality he’s always been envious of. He knows that, even when he uses the smallest amount of magic, the entirety of his eyes become solid black. He can’t feel it when it happens, because it isn’t meant for him. It’s a warning to those around him, his tainted bloodline revealing itself to anyone who knows what it means. With every spell, every spark of magic that he uses, he reveals the sulphur in his blood.

Claudia was the same and he hadn’t felt self-conscious about it until Heather came along with her beautiful blue eyes that never changed. Despite their differences, Heather never made fun of his black eyes or demon blood. Claudia had worked hard to ensure that they both viewed themselves as equals. But Stiles still envied her, wishing that he, too, had witchy blood that was untainted.

As an adult, he’s grown accustomed to his eyes and often forgets that they change color at all. But, sometimes, when he’s feeling especially down, he’ll cast a small spell and look in the mirror, remembering how he had once felt as a young child. Not indifferent about his black eyes, but proud of them. Proud because his eyes looked like Claudia’s and Stiles had wanted nothing more than to be like her.

Now, Stiles gives all his attention to Heather, desperate to catalogue every detail he can, knowing it’s most likely the last time he’ll ever see his sister.

“For these blessings, I offer an intangible sacrifice,” Heather says once the incantation is finished, her eyes briefly flick up to his and then away. “Our friendship.”

She won’t meet his eyes as she explains, “It’s unlikely I’ll ever see you again, after I leave. This will be it for us; the last time Claudia’s children are together. It’s taken me a long time to be okay with that, but it’s a sacrifice I have to make. One I am willing to make.”

“May your sacrifice be worth it,” Stiles murmurs, reciting the words by heart. He means it. “For these blessings, I offer a tangible sacrifice.” He snaps his fingers, a well-read book appearing in his hands with a green flash. 

It had been one of the few non-spellbooks that Claudia had when Heather first arrived. It was Claudia’s childhood copy and it quickly became one of Heather’s favorite’s as well, likely due to, at least in part, the connection it gave her to their mother.

“Is that _Peter Pan?_ I didn’t know you still had this,” Heather says, awestruck. As he hands it over, her fingertips stroke the creased and torn cover with reverence. 

“Do you remember how obsessed you were with that book?” Stiles asks, a wry smile on his face as he recalls the near endless chatter that had escaped her for weeks after she’d finished reading it for the first time.

“I was declaring myself a lost boy for, like, a whole month.” Heather chuckles, a fond smile on her face, mistiness back in her eyes. “Until you told me your theory that Peter and the lost boys were all dead…"

“…and that Wendy and her siblings were between life and death,” Stiles finishes, still feeling a sense of pride at his theory.

“Thank you,” Heather says, voice thick with emotion, and she sets the book gently down into the makeshift cauldron. “May your sacrifice be worth it.”

Stiles smiles tightly at her and they both turn to Walmart, expectant. A beat of silence passes between them and he wonders if they should bother asking.

Screw it. Might as well.

“You got a sacrifice you wanna make, buddy? She’s got a long trip ahead of her,” Stiles says.

Walmart extends his wings and flaps them harshly in agitation, but doesn’t move from his spot on the pentagram. A small object falls from under his wing, lightly tapping against the ground and rolling, coming to a stop and tipping over beside the bucket.

A bottle cap.

Heather and Stiles blink down at the bottle cap and then meet each other’s gaze, before simultaneously bursting into astonished laughter.

“For these blessings, Walmart-the-Familiar has offered a tangible sacrifice of one bottle cap. Gently used,” Stiles announces with as much seriousness as he can muster.

“Thank you, Walmart,” Heather murmurs sincerely.

“May your sacrifice be worth it,” they both utter in unison, before placing the bottle cap in the cauldron alongside the book.

They shift onto their knees for the next part. Heather pulls out a small hunter’s knife and straightens her elbow, holding her arm over the bucket.

“I give my blood in thanks,” she recites, unflinchingly cutting a short but deep line into her forearm. She twists her arm for a better angle so that the blood drips down quicker, the red liquid spilling down and splattering over the tangible sacrifices. 

She puts down the knife as Stiles pulls out his own. He pulls up his sleeve, watching as the thick black ink shifts and moves away, giving him space to repeat Heather’s action. His blood mixes in with hers, though he doesn’t look at it directly, since he gets queasy at the sight of his own blood. 

“I give my blood in thanks.”

When the cauldron is filled enough, they imagine their hands engulfed in flames and press their palms against their wounds, cauterizing them. Stiles’ tattoos move to cover the angry, red skin and hide the newly-made scar.

To their surprise, Walmart plucks out a small feather and drops it into the bucket, a few drops of black blood falling into the mixture with it.

“Walmart gives his blood in thanks,” Stiles and Heather say in unison, both of them grinning at the unexpected cooperation.

“Thanks, buddy,” Stiles says with a grin.

“Thank you, Walmart,” Heather repeats. 

As if knowing his job is done, he vanishes, a small wisp of smoke left in his place.

Heather closes out the ritual with the rest of the incantation and Stiles doesn’t mention the way her voice wavers as she speaks. The cauldron’s contents go up in flames and Stiles wills the ceiling to disappear, letting the smoke and ash rise up to the moon and stars above.

Silence falls as the ritual ends, the weight of what’s to come hanging ominously over them. Stiles shifts until he’s lying down on the floor, his eyes gazing up at the night sky. The cauldron crackles next to him and Heather moves to lie down beside him. He could almost imagine that they were both in the Outside, watching the stars after having celebrated the Autumn Equinox with a local coven.

They sit in silence, their minds whirring with thoughts of the future, until the candles and the cauldron burnt out.

  
o0o0o0o

_It was Spring and the rain was pouring, beating loudly and demandingly against the windows. Heather sat in the lounge, eyes glued to the television screen as she watched ‘Matilda’, her favorite movie, for the 5th or 6th time._

_“—and then Laura laughed at me and Derek growled at me to get away from his sister,” a fourteen-year-old Stiles said excitedly._

_Claudia was listening to him with a small smile, only half paying attention as she filled out a crossword puzzle._

_“Can you stop mooning over Derek for like five minutes? I’m trying to watch a movie!” Heather snapped, glaring from her spot on the sofa._

_“You’ve seen it a hundred times already,” Stiles shot back._

_“Heather, be kind. Stiles is just excited about a crush,” Claudia said._

_“Then he can go tell someone who actually cares!” Heather exclaimed. “Besides, he’s had this stupid crush for two years already.”_

_“It’s more than a crush,” Stiles said defensively. “It’s an ‘always and forever’ kind of thing.”_

_“Oh, is it now?” Claudia leaned closer. “Isn’t that what you said about Lydia?”_

_“I haven’t liked Lydia since I was ten, Mom. That was a crush. This is serious. This is true love,” Stiles declared._

_“I see,” Claudia said._

_“Back to what I was saying— he was half-shifted with his fangs and furry sideburns, and then he growled at me, and it was so hot.” Off Claudia’s frown, he immediately backtracked.“I mean cute. It was so cute. Definitely not hot.”_

_“He’s eighteen,” Claudia said disapprovingly._

_“I know, Mom,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “I have eyes.”_

_“Eyes yes, but common sense and age-appropriate crushes… hmmm, not so sure about that,” Claudia said, unbothered by Stiles’ offended expression._

_“Have you seen him?! He’s all muscular now that he’s started going to the gym and he’s all grumpy, but also has the cutest-looking bunny teeth. Oh, and have you seen his eyes? They’re incredible! They’re green, like my magic, but also speckled with blue, yellow, and gray. But they’re mostly green, which means we’re meant to be.”_

_“Sure, sweetheart. As long as you’re both ‘meant to be’ after you turn eighteen,” Claudia said, scribbling a word in the blank boxes of the puzzle._

_“Sixteen.”_

_“Twenty-one.”_

_Stiles gaped at her. “You can’t go up like that! That’s not how a negotiation works!”_

_“I can do whatever I want. This isn’t a negotiation,” Claudia said smartly._

_“That’s true; technically there’s nothing to negotiate. The age of consent is sixteen if he’s less than four years older than me, which he is. He’s only three years and eight months older,” Stiles said._

_Heather whipped her head around, a look on her face that could only be described as a mixture of ‘utter glee’ and ‘Holy-Shit-You-Just-Fucked-Up’._

_Claudia put her pencil down gently. Too gently. Stiles knew he'd made a huge mistake. “Stiles. My son. Light of my life. My darling_ **_child_** _. Why do you know the exact specifics regarding the age of consent?” Her voice was eerily calm like it always was whenever Stiles talked his way into trouble._

_“It was in a book I read,” Stiles lied._

_“And by ‘a book he read’ he really means the porn channel he watches on the TV!” Heather shouted gleefully._

_Stiles’ face flamed red and he swiveled towards her, furious at the betrayal._

_“How dare you—”_

_“We don’t have those kinds of channels on our TV!” Claudia said, voice shrill with surprise and panic._

_“We do if you know the right spell!” Heather outright cackled, though her laughter stopped abruptly as Stiles lunged at her. She darted off the couch, blocking him with a barrier spell that gave her enough time to take refuge behind Claudia’s wooden chair._

_“Where did you even— No. You know what? I don’t want to know.” Claudia sighed, massaging her temples with her fingertips. “You kids are growing up too fast and I’m way too young to have this much gray hair.”_

_Stiles chased after Heather, their spells flying around the room, hitting ceilings and lights._  
  
“For goodness’ sakes, be careful!” and, “No, kids! Mind the TV!”

_When Stiles narrowly missed her, hitting the wall with a full body impact instead, Heather bent over with laughter, choking out a hysterical, “Mom, Mom! Make him stop! I give in; I’m too tired!”_

_Stiles prowled closer, eyes on his target when he realized that Claudia hadn’t responded to Heather’s plea. Heather noticed at the same time, both of them turning to look at the still-silent Claudia._

_Her light brown eyes were wide and misty, her hand over her mouth as she eyed Heather in stunned silence._

_“Mom?” Stiles softly questioned, cautiously stepping towards the table._

_Claudia pulled her hand away from her mouth, revealing a shaky, but happy smile. “I’m sorry, kids, I just got emotional…”_

_It dawned on Stiles what had happened and he gawked at Heather, eyes as wide as Claudia’s._

_“What?” Heather snapped, self-conscious and unsettled by their unusual reactions._

_Her hands tugged anxiously at the silver moon pendant glinting around her neck. Claudia had given it to her a few years back, declaring that it had once belonged to her mother, and grandmother before her, and that Heather deserved to have it passed down onto her. Heather had said nothing at the time, though her eyes were misty, and she never went a day without wearing it._

_“You called her ‘Mom’,” Stiles said._

_For the first time since arriving at the agency five years ago, Heather had called Claudia ‘Mom’._

_Heather blinked owlishly, as if equally surprised._

_“Oh. Well. Yeah. That’s okay, right?” Heather nervously averted her gaze, as if unsure sure she was allowed to consider herself part of their makeshift family._

_“It’s more than okay, my beautiful daughter. It’s wonderful.” Claudia grinned brightly, happiness shining in her eyes._

_Heather beamed back, all the uncertainty vanishing in an instant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This chapter has a lot going on. Flashbacks, Cora's 'helpful' input, Stallison becoming #official, and the ritual! What did you think?
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](https://teenshmolf.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat with me :)


	7. Breathless (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had to be split into two parts because 18.5k was too much (for me, not for you guys haha). 
> 
> **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** references to past Kate Argent/Derek Hale "relationship". Like in canon, he was a minor at the time.

Stiles is avoiding him, Derek knows that for a fact. 

What he doesn’t know is _why_ Stiles is avoiding him.

It’s been nearly a week since they had their civil conversation in the interrogation room. He thought their talk had gone well enough; he'd apologized for his awful behavior and Stiles had implied that he'd forgiven him.

However, it's become painfully clear that that isn’t the case. Since that discussion, every time Stiles catches a glimpse of Derek, he goes wide-eyed, his heart speeding up before he vanishes in a burst of green lightning.

It's overly dramatic and completely unnecessary and he does it every. single. time.

“He’s afraid of me,” Derek blurts, mortification setting in. 

It's painfully obvious and he can’t believe it has taken him this long to figure it out. After all, why wouldn’t he be afraid? Derek had threatened to shoot him on their first mission, actually _tried_ _to_ on their second, all the while accusing him of being a traitor who killed Laura, only to offer nothing but a simple “oops, sorry” in the end.

As if an apology would magically fix what a giant, unforgivable asshole he's been. He is such an idiot.

“Who?” Erica asks, puzzled by the sudden outburst. 

Sensing that they're taking a break from sparring, she steps out of her defensive stance and heads over towards her water bottle at the edge of the mat. She pours a little bit in her mouth, but seems to think better of it and removes the lid, pouring the water over her head instead.

It's excessive and an unnecessary waste of water, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“Stiles,” Derek answers, eyebrows lifting as she dramatically flips her wet hair out of her face. “He’s afraid of me.”

“Oh, _no._ How silly of me. I got my shirt all wet,” Erica says with an exaggerated pout. She tugs playfully at her now transparent tank top, her navy blue sports bra perfectly visible underneath.

Derek’s eyebrows raise further. “What are you doing?”

“Putting on a show for the security guys,” Erica says, blowing a kiss and wiggling her fingers towards the camera in the corner. “They have such a boring job, you know? I like to spice things up for them every now and then.”

“How kind of you,” Derek deadpans, grabbing his own water bottle and drinking from the opening like a normal person.

“It’s my good deed for the week,” Erica says, then, returning to their previous topic, “What makes you think Stiles is afraid of you?”

“Have you seen him at all this week?”

“Well, no; now that you mention it…”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe he’s been busy, you know, not being shackled and all.”

“When I do run into him, he panics and magically disappears.” Derek wipes a hand over his face and leans back against the wall behind him. “I didn’t know he could teleport.”

He can’t help but feel disappointed. He'd hoped things would be better between them after the apology, but that’s not the case.

Erica huffs. “He doesn’t actually go anywhere, he just wills himself invisible and hides his heartbeat and scent.”

Derek blinks. He didn’t know that.

“I don’t think he’ll ever be able to teleport. He’s notoriously bad at those kinds of spells. He’d probably end up in another dimension by accident. Did he ever tell you about his ceiling?” 

No, Stiles didn’t tell him about his ceiling, because he doesn’t talk to Derek about _anything at all_.  
  
“Not the point, Erica.”

“Right. Let’s say he is avoiding you; that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s afraid of you,” Erica says as she lowers herself to sit on the ground, using the break to stretch a little. 

Derek follows her lead. He drops down, extends his legs and reaches forward, grunting at the pleasant burn as the tight muscles in his calves stretch.

“I tried to strangle him and then acted like things between us could go back to normal. Why else would he be avoiding me?” Derek says bitterly.

“Eh, I don’t buy it. We’re talking about _Stiles_. He’s never had good survival instincts and I’m pretty sure he pops a boner whenever he’s in dangerous situations. Besides, he’s been in love with you for nine years, he clearly doesn’t give up easily,” Erica says.

Derek’s brows furrow, latching onto the important part of that sentence and ignoring the rest. “He has not been in love with me for nine years.” 

He has been aware of Stiles’ interest in him since he'd arrived at the agency nine years ago, but it wasn’t anything serious. He's physically attracted to Derek, and that's all it is. Attraction doesn’t mean love, Kate Argent taught him that. Although he knows now that their “relationship” had been a lie. And, though she'd led him on to get access to his family, they'd still _talked_. They would sneak phone calls to each other, sharing details of their day-to-day lives and hopes for the future.

He and Kate had talked often, but he's barely had more than a handful of civilized conversations with Stiles over a nine-year period. What could Stiles possibly know about him? What could he _love_ about him? Surely not the angry scowls, the hastily spoken insults, or the endless list of shutdowns he's thrown whenever Stiles tried flirting. Stiles can’t possibly love him because he doesn’t really know him.

“Not this again…” Erica rolls her eyes as if _he_  were the one being unreasonable. She moves onto stretching her upper body, bending her elbow and pulling at it with her other hand.

“He’s attracted to me. That’s it,” Derek says sternly. He bends a leg back, the movement tugging at his hamstrings. “It’s a crush at most.”

Erica scoffs. “Sure, a crush that’s lasted almost ten years now.”

Derek’s mouth twists sourly. “How would you know? You’ve only been here for the past three.”

“Literally everybody knows how obsessed Stiles is with you,” Erica says slowly, dropping her hands into her lap as she stops stretching to focus her full attention on the conversation.

Derek snorts in annoyance, abandoning the activity as well to angle himself towards her. “Don’t they have better things to talk about?”

“Um. No, Derek. We don’t. This place is weirdly cultish and you guys are some of the best— and only— entertainment we’ve got. It’s like watching a reality TV show where the audience anxiously waits for the two main characters to finally realize they’ve been in love the whole time.”

“That sounds like a terrible show,” Derek deadpans. 

Despite what others may think, nothing romantic is going to happen between them. He isn’t in love with Stiles, can’t imagine himself in a relationship with him. That’s not to say he doesn’t like him. Objectively, Derek knows that Stiles is attractive: his uniquely mole-dotted face, the way his eyes glint with mischief, and the shape of his cupid’s bow lips that were almost always moving or wrapped around something… Yes, Stiles is easy to look at. But the annoying sounds and verbal vomit that spilled almost endlessly out of his mouth ruined his appeal more often than not.

“It is! But the good news is, you can change that by chasing him down and fucking him against the—”

“Erica!” Derek snaps, his cheeks burning at her vulgarity. Not for the first time, he questions his decision to allow her into his pack and what that says about his own intelligence.

“—or kissing him and confessing your feelings works too. Rated G, Rated E, it’s all the same to me. I’ll still be up at night imagining you two hate-banging whether or not you put on a show for the rest of us,” Erica says shamelessly.

A horrified noise escapes his throat, a strange sound between a whine and groan that he has never made before. Honestly, it doesn’t surprise him that Erica earned the highest grade possible on the Torture Techniques exam. She has an impeccable gift for discovering uncomfortable topics and vulnerabilities as well as blatantly bulldozing her way past people’s boundaries. He should never have agreed to spar with her alone; she wouldn’t be nearly this crass if Boyd were here. Actually, no. That is a lie. Erica doesn’t filter herself for anyone, even her boyfriend. 

His head bobs minutely as he somberly realizes that, with one-hundred-percent certainty, he had made a very unwise decision when he agreed to accept her as his newest beta.

He doesn’t say as much though, because he isn't as tactless as she is. Instead, he simply says, “You’re insane.”

The gym door swishes open, announcing the arrival of their current topic of discussion, Stiles, and his goofy friend, Scott.

“Nope! It’s too crowded. Let’s go,” Stiles squeaks, panic evident in his large brown eyes as he clumsily bats at his best friend’s arm.

“But there’s only two—”

“Let’s _go_ , Scott,” Stiles insists, his eyes going impossibly wider as he not-so-subtly tries to get Scott to understand how much he wants to leave. 

Derek’s lips twist, radiating judgement so strong it is palpable in the air. Stiles is being completely ridiculous, acting like Derek will maul him if he were to step further into the room. It's so absurd it's almost laughable. Except it really isn't. A bitter sting of hurt jolts through him at the notion of Stiles thinking so poorly of him.

“Stiles!” Erica says with fake enthusiasm. Derek’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Perfect timing; we were just talking about you!”

“Uh. You were?” Stiles asks dubiously. 

He has clearly spent enough time around Erica to know to be cautious when her voice holds that particularly cheerful note. Unfortunately, his attention is so set on scrutinizing her that he completely misses Derek’s imploring gaze. Curiosity gets the better of him and Stiles lowers his hand from Scott’s arm, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Sometimes Derek wonders why Stiles’ familiar was a crow when a fox would better suit him. They both shared traits of inquisitiveness and cunning, which made him incredibly smart, but also prone to trouble. 

Like now, for instance.

Erica’s grin becomes pointed. “Oh, yes. We were discussing the likelihood of Derek pinning you down and—”

Derek inhales sharply in utter horror.

“—winning against you in a fight,” Erica finishes smoothly.

Stiles’ lips part, the movement drawing Derek’s attention to them, and his face contorts into an adorably indignant expression.

Derek coughs to cover a laugh at Stiles’ clear offense, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Heated brown eyes snap to his and narrow further.

Shit.

“You think _he_ can beat me in a fight?” Stiles asks Erica, voice incredulous while he gestures at Derek.

Derek’s head twitches at the implied slight. What was that supposed to mean?  They both went through and passed the same combat exams.

“Technically, I already did,” Derek points out. Which, despite being the truth, is apparently the wrong thing to say.

Stiles steps forward, fully placing himself in the room. He jabs his finger accusingly in Derek’s general direction. “Only because Greenberg hit me over the head with a fire extinguisher. You had help; I didn’t.”

“You had your bird,” Derek counters, instinctively straightening his back to appear taller from where he is still seated on the ground.

“First of all, _my bird_ has a name and it’s _Walmart._ Second, he didn’t do jack shit to help me because you shot him,” Stiles argues, an indignant flush rising on his skin, pink tinting his cheeks down to the high collar of his jacket. 

Derek’s eyes hone in on the sliver of pink skin visible on his neck just above his jacket collar, unable to stop himself from wondering how far down the flush goes. Is his torso defined, his body sculpted with lean muscle from the intensive training program? Is the rest of his body a pale canvas speckled with freckles and moles like his face?

Erica gasps, a genuinely upset sound that pulls Derek from his daze.  
  
“You shot his familiar?!” she yells and jumps to her feet, fury in her eyes as she bears down on him. “That could’ve irreparably hurt him, possibly  _killed_ him! What is wrong with you?”

Derek gapes at her sudden betrayal, his hands raised placatingly. She is overreacting; Stiles hadn’t so much as batted an eye at his familiar being shot. While she is technically correct, and it is common knowledge that badly wounding a witch’s familiar could lead to the witch’s death, it clearly, for some unknown reason, isn’t the case for Stiles and Walmart. The crow frequently manages to injure himself, sometimes badly, and Stiles has never seemed to be affected by it.

“He was fine! It didn’t hurt him at all,” Derek says.

“You. don’t. shoot. a. witch’s. familiar. you. asshole.” Erica bites the words out as she hops on one leg at a time, hastily tearing off each of her sneakers and turning them into projectiles aimed at Derek’s face.

He dodges the first one, but the second is perfectly timed and breaks his nose with the force of its impact. He clutches his throbbing nose, swearing under his breath as he quickly resets it. His hands come away thankfully clean of any blood and the pain instantly subsides, but the indignation lingers. 

“Tell her you were fine!” Derek snaps at Stiles, who has been watching with a look of pure delight.

Scott’s eyes dart between the three of them with a conflicted expression on his face, as if he were contemplating coming to Derek’s aid, but didn’t think he would be allowed to help his best friend’s enemy. No, ‘enemy’ isn’t the right word. His antagonist? Hostile acquaintance? Partner-he-hates-but-possibly-has-a-crush-on? 

He is honestly at a loss, not sure how to define what they are to each other.

“It was pure agony and I wasn’t sure I was going to survive, quite honestly.” Stiles’ chin wobbles in exaggerated despair, his expression and shoulders instantly drooping.

It turns out ‘enemy’ had been the right word after all. This is a perfect example as to why he believes anyone who thinks Stiles is still obsessed with him is an idiot.

Utter bullshit.

“That’s it. Get on the mat,” Derek growls, rising to his feet. He has had enough.

Stiles’ expression instantly changes, his mouth parting and eyes widening, a thin hint of arousal hitting the air. Derek’s nostrils flare at the heady scent, instinctively trying to take in more of the enticing smell (not that he'll ever say that out loud).

“What,” Stiles says dumbly. 

Derek bares his teeth in a vicious grin. 

“You think I won because I had Greenberg’s help? Fine. Let’s spar. Just you and me; no bird, no Greenberg,” Derek says, crossing his arms over his chest, knowing how it makes his biceps bulge. 

Stiles’ eyes flicker down, the scent of arousal filling the air. Derek breathes it in, wanting to cover himself in that scent. It smells so good—

“Dude,” Scott hisses.

The smell cuts off, vanishing instantly. Stiles’ eyes are solid black, magically masking himself, likely embarrassed by the evidence of his attraction. Derek’s jaw clenches, but he keeps his expression neutral, not wanting Stiles to think the loss of his scent bothers him.

Because it _doesn’t_. He just doesn’t appreciate having his senses tricked. 

“Lydia says I’m not supposed to waste my magic when I’m not on duty,” Stiles says, eyes shifty. As if he hadn’t used his magic to hide his scent from them.

Hypocrite _._ Derek snorts derisively.

“You don’t need magic to fight,” he counters.

“And you don’t need it to get fuc—ow! Mother fucker!” Erica cries out when a magically flying shoe hits her face. Huh. Karma does exist after all. “That counts as wasting your magic too, asshole.”

“That’s not what I consider ‘wasting magic’,” Stiles quips, the inky black creeping back out of his eyes as quickly as it had appeared.

“Maybe we should go,” Scott says.  


Stiles’ eyes are narrowed as he rakes his eyes down Derek’s body, as if sizing him up. His heated gaze is like a physical touch, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

Stiles nibbles his lower lip, as if considering it.  “Nah, buddy. I’m good,” he says to Scott once he’s made his decision. He kicks off his shoes and socks, leaving them carelessly strewn about. 

“You wanna spar? Let’s spar.” 

Within a moment of stepping onto the mat, Stiles’ stance completely changes. He stands up taller, his shoulders pulled back as he cheekily grins at Derek, an air of pure arrogance about him that Derek’s never seen before. 

Derek blinks, taken aback by the sight. He can’t think of a single instance where he’s seen Stiles look this defiant, this confident in himself, even on their missions. It’s a surprisingly good look on him. This may be one of the rare moments where he looks like a highly trained secret agent instead of the grownup version of Derek’s goofy twelve-year-old admirer.

Derek swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. He's pretty sure he hears Erica mumble something about Stiles being _“unfairly hot”_ , but he tunes her out.

“This is a bad idea,” Scott grumbles, but he takes a seat beside Erica, both of them leaning against the treadmills behind them.

“This is gonna be so hot,” Erica says.

“What’s your safeword for when you’ve had enough?” Stiles asks. 

Derek’s fists clench with the desire to knock him down a peg. But that can wait. He rolls his eyes and removes his shoes and socks, placing them neatly in the corner. 

“I assure you, I won’t need one.”

“Aw, Derek. I don’t play rough without a safeword,” Stiles says with a flirtatious wink, head tilted to the side. 

Jesus _Christ_. Stiles’ grin widens further as Derek stumbles at the edge of the mat, his gaze having been too focused on the way Stiles had bared his neck. Apparently cockiness does it for him, because his gums itch from holding back his fangs, resisting the urge to bite.

Derek wants to _wreck_ him.

When he is fully on the mat, they both step into defensive stances, fists raised in front of their chests as they stand opposite each other. 

“Are you planning on talking me to death or are we going to actually spar?” Derek snipes.

Stiles’ eyes glint with amusement and a wave of relief washes through Derek at the fact that he is here, bantering with him and willing to spar for the fun of it. Maybe he isn’t afraid like he had assumed. 

Derek takes the first step, advancing forward and aiming a swift punch at Stiles’ chest which he leans back to dodge. Stiles retaliates, swinging his fist at Derek’s face. He is quick, but so is Derek.

Derek blocks the punch with his forearm and aims low with his other, targeting Stiles’ unprotected torso. Stiles spots the movement and bounces back, barely avoiding the hit with a grin.

Derek feels an answering smile form on his face before he can stop it. He usually spars with Erica and Boyd and, by now, they know each other’s fighting style so well that their sparring sessions have become pretty predictable and dry. Fighting Stiles is… different.

Revitalizing.

Stiles rapidly advances, angling a fist at Derek’s head. Derek drops into a crouch to avoid it, promptly popping back up and landing a blow to Stiles’ chest.

Stiles grunts at the impact and staggers back, his smirk finally fading from his face and annoyance tinging his voice as he snaps, “You’re holding back. _Don’t_ hold back against me.”

That being said, he moves forward with an agile high kick, his heel flying at Derek’s chest.   
  
Derek sees it coming and dodges it with a side step, using the opportunity to swing his own kick that smashes into the back of Stiles’ thigh. He uses more of his strength this time, not holding back as Stiles had demanded.  
  
The pained grunt Stiles makes almost has him feeling guilty. Almost. But then he recalls Stiles’ cocksure taunts, the confident swagger as he stepped up to the mat, and all guilt instantly vanishes.

Despite his pain, right as Derek’s leg touches down on the padded floor, Stiles is already mid-sweep, targeting Derek’s ankle. Derek spins to avoid the hit, using the momentum to aim a roundhouse kick at Stiles’ head.

It doesn’t connect.

Stiles steps back, leaning to avoid the kick, but Derek continues his assault. He relentlessly pushes forward, kicking harshly at Stiles’ ribs and bringing his leg up again for a second hit, but Stiles’ hands grab at his foot— caging it tightly against his side. 

It throws him off balance and Derek hops uselessly on one leg as Stiles sweeps low, kicking Derek’s leg out from under him.

Derek hits the mat with a surprised grunt, blinking up to see Stiles peering down at him, his cocky grin out in full force again. He shouldn’t be so arrogant. It took him a disappointing thirty seconds to finally land a blow against him.

“Nice move,” Derek offers as he pops back up to his feet. “But did you really spend seventeen years learning how to simply knock over your opponent?”

Stiles’ nostrils flare in annoyance, a distinctly canine reaction that speaks of spending too much time around werewolves. And Derek feels a childish sense of pride at getting a rise out of his opponent.

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but Derek lunges before he can get the chance, knocking out his ankle with his foot. Stiles stumbles off balance with an indignant squawk and Derek seizes the opportunity. He brings his fist forward and lands another solid blow to Stiles’ chest.

Although he can’t smell it, he can see the way Stiles is practically radiating anger. He recovers quickly from Derek’s barrage of attacks, taking a few steps back before advancing and kicking out swiftly three times, landing blow after blow against Derek’s stomach.

Holy _shit_.

Derek groans and stumbles back, hunched and shocked by the intense force behind each kick. His hand instinctively pokes at the sore area and he sucks in air through gritted teeth as the light touch sends a flare of pain through him.   
  
Stiles might’ve broken a rib or two with a single kick. That was _not_ human strength.

Derek shoves the sharp aching to the back of his mind, knowing they will be fully healed in moments. He bounces back a few paces, his unspoken suspicions confirmed when he sees Stiles’ eyes completely consumed in inky black. 

It’s not an unusual sight. Stiles’ eyes are practically always shifting between their usual brown and the demonic black and, by now, Derek is used to it. But he can’t deny that seeing Stiles like this, unusually poised and inhumanly dangerous, his tensed muscles speaking to a quiet fury inside of him, really brings out something primal in Derek.

The part of him that wants to hold Stiles down and make him _submit_. 

Derek advances again, rapidly jabbing one— two— three times at Stiles’ torso, each blow instantly being deflected by a green barrier that pops in and out of existence. Derek’s teeth grind at the cheap move, his own anger rising.

The instant the barrier drops for the third time is when Stiles spins and kicks, his shin slamming into Derek’s unprotected chest. It's as strong as the other hits and knocks him back a few feet, a feat that's difficult for even beta wolves to accomplish when pitted against an alpha like him. 

And yet, Stiles is able to do it while barely showing any effort. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his chest rising and falling with a little extra effort, and his hairline is damp with sweat, but other than that, he doesn’t seem to be struggling to keep up with a supernatural opponent.

The need to shift ripples underneath his skin, his primal side rising to the surface at the challenge in front of him, but he forces it down and charges forward again. 

He throws a wide punch at Stiles’ head and Stiles, as expected, goes low to avoid it, placing his head right in the path of Derek’s knee as he brings it up. Stiles’ back slams into the mat, his expression rightfully dazed as the blackness recedes from his eyes. Derek seizes the opening, straddling his waist and bracketing his hips with his knees. He grabs at Stiles’ flailing arms, swiftly and efficiently pinning the wrists above his head.

His eyes burn red at the victory as Stiles writhes beneath him,  frustration evident on his face.

“Do you want to use that safeword now?” Derek teases, voice abnormally low and rough to his own ears.

Stiles’ cheeks are ruddy pink when he glares up at him, but he doesn’t stop fighting against the tight hold around his wrists.

“It’s not over yet,” Stiles says, breathlessly.

“Oh? You mean you don’t need your hands to use your magic?” Derek’s lips split in a smug smile at the ‘oh shit’ look of realization on Stiles’ face. It’s obvious he wasn’t aware Derek knew that tidbit of information about him.

But, despite what Stiles may think, Derek pays attention. He's noticed a lot of things about Stiles, mentally cataloguing even the smallest of details over the past few years. It wasn’t that he thought the information would eventually come in handy, but rather, in the boredom of the agency, Stiles has been, and continues to be, the only subject that has effortlessly held Derek’s interest. 

Derek leans down, taking satisfaction in the way Stiles’ pupils dilate in response, his lips parting invitingly as if ready to take whatever they're given. Derek’s eyes burn impossibly brighter, wanting to take him up on the unspoken offer.

“Face it, Stiles _._ I won,” Derek all but purrs in his ear. 

Stiles’ heart thunders loudly beneath him, like prey trapped underneath the paws of a predator. It calls to his instincts, tugs at the desire inside of him to hold, to bite, to _fuck_. 

Derek closes his eyes and inhales as the tip of his nose brushes against the juncture of Stiles’ jaw and neck. A low, displeased rumble emits from his chest, vocalizing his frustration at the lack of Stiles’ intoxicating scent in his nose.

“Oh my g—” Stiles cuts himself off with what sounds suspiciously like a moan, his back arching beautifully as he pushes up against Derek.

His grip tightens around the pinned wrists as Stiles’ pelvis brushes up against him in a weak attempt to dislodge him. Derek nuzzles closer, his thick stubble scratching against the unmarked neck; he’s mindlessly searching for the missing scent, as if it’ll reappear if he gets close enough.

The tip of his upper fangs jut out underneath his top lip and press lightly against Stiles’ skin, a silent reminder of the predator holding him down.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, but it doesn’t sound like a protest.

It sounds like _permission_.

Derek throws himself off Stiles as the gym doors swish open. His back is against the wall, chest heaving with gulps of stale gym air in order to clear his head, though he can feel his eyes still flickering red.

Goddamnit. He lost control. _Again_. 

He smacks his head back against the wall, the ache helping clear his head faster. He’s not sure if losing control and almost killing his partner is better or worse than losing it and almost fucking them into the gym mat. And is this technically an improvement in their relationship or will this mess things up even further?

Lydia stands in the doorway and he bends a knee to hide the straining bulge in his pants. He wouldn't survive the mortification of her knowing gaze.

“Are you kidding me?! It was getting good!” Erica wails in despair. Derek startles at her outburst, alarm spreading through him as he realizes she’s been here the whole time. He completely forgot anyone else was in the room.

He slams his head back against the wall again, this time for embarrassing himself in front of his beta. He would never admit it, but it's clear Stiles has him twisted up, his emotions tied so strongly to him that his control slips whenever things get too heated between them.

“Don’t dent my wall,” Lydia snaps at Derek, ignoring Erica’s comment. She directs her attention to where Stiles is lying on the mat, his knees raised and forearm draped across his face. His racing heart is calming down now that there's space between Derek and him.

“If you two are done with…whatever it is you were doing, I have a mission for you,” Lydia says.

Stiles’ forearm slides to the mat and he glares up at her from the floor. Derek’s eyebrows lift as he watches the exchange with curiosity. Stiles, to his knowledge, has never stayed mad at Lydia for this long. 

“You can’t be serious,” Stiles says flatly.

“I’ll see you in the briefing room in ten,” Lydia declares. “Scott and Allison are already there waiting.”

“Hey! When do I get to go on a mission with them?” Erica yells out as Lydia heads for the exit.

“Next time!” Lydia promise. The door opens. 

“I can hear you lying!” Erica shouts after her.

The doors shut and silence falls. The reality of what happened sinks in.

Derek's first realization is that he wants to fuck Stiles. This technically isn’t new information. He can admit that Stiles is annoying, attractive, and annoyingly attractive. He's been attracted to Stiles ever since he saw him dressed up and ready for his first mission. Seeing him in the all-black, tailored combat outfit, various weapons strapped to his thighs and hips, had been eye-opening, to say the least.

The second realization is that he almost fucked Stiles. This directly leads into the third realization, which is that he almost fucked Stiles in the gym. In front of Erica.

What the hell is wrong with him?

“When did Scott leave?” Stiles rasps, still unmoving from his spot on the floor. He directs the question to the ceiling, like he's voicing his thoughts and not actually expecting an answer.

Erica gives him one anyway. 

“Right around the time you started moaning like a two-bit whore,” Erica replies, sounding way too pleased about that. “He bolted out of here like his tail was on fire.”

Derek’s ears and face burn in shame _._ How could he have acted like that in front of his own beta? What kind of example was he setting if he, the pack’s alpha _,_ couldn’t maintain control?

“Erica, I’m sorry, I…” Derek says, faltering as humiliation threatens to overwhelm him.

Erica takes pity on him, offering a sincere smile and a teasing, “Don’t be. This was great for me. I won’t have to watch porn for at least a month.”

Stiles groans and Derek wipes a hand over his face, having heard that sound in his ear only a few moments prior, though it had been followed by the breathless plea of his name.

He launches himself out of the room, desperately needing some fresh, Stiles-less air. He hears Erica cackling from the hallway, until the gym’s soundproof doors mercifully close.

o0o0o0o

_Derek sat in the lounge, his final exam preparation papers strewn across the coffee table. He was scribbling notes down in the side margins, tapping his pen anxiously against the table as he read._

_Laura lounged on the couch beside him, continuously changing the TV channel, unable to settle on a specific show. Unlike Derek, she was completely unconcerned with their upcoming exams. But, then again, she always was much better under pressure than him._

_A sudden burst of laughter had him snapping the pen in his grip, ink spilling over his papers. He jumped up, swearing and frantically grabbing at a nearby tissue box to stop the ink from spreading. Laura snorted at his distress, clearly amused by how frazzled this test was making him._

_He scowled at the far corner where the two fourteen-year-olds sat, cards in their hands as they played their third game of Go Fish. Stiles’ strange crow was hopping in the middle, shredding cards with its beak while Stiles pleaded with him to stop and Heather cackled boorishly. For the love of…_

_“Can you quiet down?” Derek snapped at them in irritation, gritting his teeth and belatedly adding a hollow, “Please.”_

_Stiles’ face flushed red. He muttered an embarrassed apology, his heart skipping despite Derek’s harsh scowl. Jesus, this kid’s crush was ridiculous. Derek rolled his eyes and he gathered the stained tissues, tossing them in the trash bin before attempting to return to his studies. He pointedly ignored Laura’s grin. She loved to tease him about Stiles’ pathetic obsession with him, as if he had any control over whether or not the kid liked him._

_“You don’t have to be such a dick about it. Take a Xanax and relax. We’ll be out of your hair soon enough,” Heather said peevishly, sneering at Derek from the floor, her hands white from clutching the cards too tightly._

_It was the last sentence that captured his attention, the strange comment making him abandon studying in order to observe them more closely. They had entered the lounge over an hour ago, and yet, he only just notices the two backpacks, stuffed to the brim and stashed behind the trash can._

_Why would they need backpacks? The agency building was large, but not enough to warrant the need for backpacks._

_“What’s that supposed to mean?” Laura asked, her interest also piqued by the oddity of the situation._

_“Our Mom’s taking us to the Outside when she comes back from her mission,” Heather declared, a smug smile on her face as Stiles shoved her._

_“Shut up! Mom said not to tell anyone!” Stiles hissed._

_Derek shot Laura a puzzled look. She shrugged, equally perplexed. Kids couldn’t leave the agency building until they turned sixteen. With or without a guardian, it wasn’t allowed._  
  
_How was Claudia planning on taking two fourteen-year-olds to the Outside? And why?_

_Low voices in the hallway caught his attention. He sat up, peering through the clear doors. Despite his mother always telling him how rude it was to eavesdrop, he couldn’t help it. Besides, they were being obnoxiously loud with their whispering, so it could only be expected that someone would listen in. He was making sure everything was okay. That was all._

_Through the glass, he watched three figures come into view and stop a few feet from the lounge entrance. His uncle Peter stood, posture tense, talking in a low tone with Deaton and Natalie Martin._

_“Claudia’s gone,” Peter said, emotionless despite the news. Derek inhaled sharply, glancing at the two oblivious teenagers nearby. They were continuing their game with harsh whispers and heated accusations of cheating, neither of them aware of the discussion happening outside._

_“How certain are you of that?” Natalie asked._

_Peter bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin. “Very.”_

_Deaton remained quiet, though he appeared disappointed and uncomfortable, his shoulders low and eyebrows heavy._

_“Such a tragedy. What do we tell her students?” Natalie said, her voice cold and void of any real concern or upset. It didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest that two innocent kids were about to find out that their beloved mentor wasn’t coming back._

_It didn’t escape Derek’s attention that she never referred to Heather and Stiles as Claudia’s children, despite everyone at the agency knowing how close the three were. It was obvious that Natalie didn’t approve of Claudia’s motherly role. Natalie often ranted about it, publicly chewing out Claudia and informing her that mentors should be teachers and nothing more. But, despite her best efforts, nothing changed. Natalie could yell and criticize all she wanted, but Claudia was incredibly stubborn. Once she made up her mind, there was no changing it._  
  
_Supposedly, Claudia was so strong-willed that her secret familiar took the form of a donkey. Derek wasn’t sure he believed that though. There wasn’t anywhere in the building for a donkey to hide._

_“The truth,” Deaton said, tone somber. “Claudia Gajos went missing during her mission and is presumed dead. I’ll tell them. It’s best they hear it from someone they know.”_

_“I’d like to join you. If that’s all right,” Peter said, though it was clear it wasn’t really a request. “I’ve always wanted to meet her children. I’ve heard such interesting things about them.”_

_“Is that Peter?” Heather rose to her knees, noticing the adults gathered in the hallway._

_Dread filled Derek, a coldness spreading through his limbs and chest as he watched at her and Stiles. They eyed the adults with interest, expressions scrunching in confusion as they registered Claudia’s absence._

_“Yeah,” Stiles said cautiously, the thoughts whirring through his head were practically visible._

_“Then… where’s Mom?” Heather asked softly. Fearfully._

_The lounge doors opened and Deaton walked into the room with a resigned expression, Peter following closely behind._

_Protectiveness surged through Derek, the overwhelming and desperate wish to pause time. He wanted, with all his might, to stop what was about to happen; to prevent these two bratty, naive kids from experiencing this. His stomach churned as the color drained from Stiles’ face, realization setting in before anything had been spoken._

_Derek remembered, with aching clarity, exactly how that felt. He saw that same expression on Laura’s face when a deputy had approached to tell them that their home had been burned to the ground. Out of eleven of their family members, only Peter had survived the fire._

_Misery flowed through him, a lump forming in his throat at the knowledge that the Stiles and Heather he had scolded a few minutes prior would not be the same ones that left this room._

_No, they would never again be the happy family, running around and filling the agency hallways with their bright laughter._

o0o0o0o

The sun had set over an hour ago and the woods are alive around them. Frogs, insects, and owls converse loudly as the four agents navigate their way through the forest. A dense fog surrounds them, making it difficult to see more than a few paces ahead.

The trees are bare of leaves, their naked branches twisting up and reaching towards the moon. Despite the autumn leaves littering the ground, the atmosphere is unnaturally warm and humid.

Derek huffs a laugh as Stiles yelps, accidentally stepping in what seemed to be a small puddle. Despite its appearance, his foot is sucked down, swallowed completely by the muddy water until it reaches his knee. His other leg is bent completely at the edge, his knee digging in the dirt as his fingers claw at the ground to keep from sinking further into the misleading puddle.

Stiles’ mud-splattered face scowls up at him as he slowly inches deeper into the hole, but the ridiculous sight only makes Derek’s shoulders shake with the effort of restraining his laughter.

“I hate this mission already,” Stiles grumbles. With Allison’s assistance, he yanks his leg out and loses his balance, landing on his butt with an _“oof!”_

Derek’s laughter abruptly subsides. He and Scott simultaneously reach out their hands, both of them offering their assistance. Stiles’ wide eyes dart between the two of them, though he quickly takes Scott’s proffered hand and mumbles, _“Thanks, Scott,”_ before continuing on.

The rejection stings, but Derek bites his tongue and follows, pretending not to notice Allison’s look of pity or Scott’s apologetic expression. To be fair, he might have deserved that, but still…

It has been about seven hours since they sparred in the gym and it seems as if Stiles has gone back to avoiding him. Which, since they are currently working a mission together, has turned into Stiles pretending he doesn’t exist.

He still isn't sure what he did to terrify Stiles into avoidance. Didn't they have a civil conversation in the interrogation room? So why is Stiles avoiding him after that? Derek could understand if Stiles was ignoring him after their awkward spar in the gym, but he has been running away for nearly a week now.

Derek places a hand on Scott’s arm. The action startles him, but Scott takes the hint and slows down, allowing Allison and Stiles to take the lead.

“What’s up?” Scott asks him.

“Stiles has been avoiding me since I apologized,” Derek says. “Is he… Did I do something to scare him?”

“Other than attempting to strangle him, you mean?” Scott asks smartly.

“Yes, other than that. _Obviously,”_ Derek says, irritation rising.

“Why are you asking me?” Scott asks.

“Because you’re his best friend and I thought you might know why,” Derek says through clenched teeth, hating the fact that he has to ask Scott this. Stiles is his partner, he should be able to tell him when he has done something wrong instead of making Derek resort to this middle school crap.

“I am and I do,” Scott says simply, clearly getting some pleasure out of helping drag out Derek’s suffering.

Derek’s teeth grind. “Are you going to tell me?”

“But that’d be betraying my best friend’s trust,” Scott says dryly, though his smug smile speaks volumes.

“I just want to know what I did so I can fix it,” Derek says with more patience than he feels. He is certain Scott can hear the truth in his words and hopefully that will be enough. “I knew an apology wouldn’t fix how I treated him, but I thought it would help at least. But now he’s afraid of me and…” Derek exhales heavily through his nose, frustration having seeped into his tone despite his best efforts.

“I don’t want him to be scared of me,” Derek confesses.

He doesn’t know why it matters so much. But he'd wanted, and hoped, that they could work towards being friends. Or, in the least, friend _ly_. Like Laura would've wanted.

Scott’s expression goes pinched and he glances over at Stiles, his lips twisting sourly. “You’ve been the biggest douchebag towards him, you get that, right?” He says, tone unusually harsh.

“I know,” Derek croaks, shame welling up within him.

“And you know that he’s… _looked up to you_ for a long time now,” Scott says, visibly uncomfortable, like the words pained him to say.

“I know.” Derek can’t help but be further disappointed in himself. Even Stiles’ best friend disapproves of him.

“You hating him, threatening him, trying to kill him— it hurt him a lot, though he won’t admit that to you. I saw how it affected him, okay?” Anger seeps into Scott’s voice. “It _fucked him up_ to have you treat him that way. But he accepted it and let you treat him like garbage, because he thought it was what he deserved.”

Derek flinches at the harsh words, but doesn’t argue. He knows it's true. He knows he's fucked up a lot these past few months and he can’t take any of it back. He can only try to salvage what's left in the wake of his mistakes.

“He’s not afraid of you, per se. He’s scared of what you could do to him…” Scott says quietly. Derek’s stomach plummets. “…but not physically.”

Derek’s baffled gaze snaps to Scott’s.

“He’s worried that, if he lets you close, he’ll keep letting you hurt him. And emotional wounds don’t heal like physical ones do,” Scott says, sad eyes watching Stiles trudge through the fog ahead of them, oblivious to their conversation.

“How do I make it up to him? How do I show him that I don’t want to hurt him anymore?” Derek asks.

“This is going to sound crazy, but… have you tried being _nice_ to him?” Scott picks up his pace, catching up to Allison and leaving Derek feeling unmoored.

Of _course_ he's tried being nice to Stiles, but it’s not like he makes it easy. Bickering and arguing has always been their thing and isn’t an easy routine to break. But, he has thought about it. About what it would be like to be able to have decent conversations with his partner; interactions that involved more than petty quips and hastily thrown insults.

Obviously, he needs to try harder if he wants that to be a reality.

 

The trees spread out as they continue on their journey, the forest becoming something more akin to a swamp. The dirt beneath their feet slowly shifts to mud that eventually tapers off at the edges of a pond.

The pond water is still and silent, green algae coating the surface like a poorly made and ill-fitted blanket.

“Is this it?” Scott asks. 

Allison pulls out her hand-sized map, comparing the detailed sketch and notes to the area around them. They were told to look for a mystical pond in the middle of the enchanted forest, in hopes of capturing a rogue kelpie that’s been killing and eating hikers over the past few months.

He supposes this could be it, though he’s not sure what makes a ‘mystical pond’ different from regular ones.

“Seems like it,” Allison says.

“It doesn’t look occupied,” Stiles says dubiously, mirroring Derek’s own thoughts. Not only is it eerily silent, but the solid layer of algae suggests that the water’s surface hasn’t been disturbed in a while.

Naturally, that is when things go sideways.

In front of their eyes, the pond begins to shift, the algae and the water churning and spreading.It expands, stretching out until the ends are gone and only the shoreline is visible. It takes a few moments before it finally settles, looking more like a vast lake than a pond. 

Dense fog pours out of the forest, thick enough to hide the surrounding trees, leaving only the edge of pond and a few feet of the forest floor visible.

Derek instinctively steps between Stiles and the edge of the water, warily eyeing it for further movement. A human-like figure rises from the center of the lake, though only its outline is visible through the haze.

Derek spins around to face the others, only to find himself utterly alone. There is no Stiles. No Allison. No Scott.

Just him.

He swallows down his panic, but his mind continues to race. Where could they have gone when there is no forest any more?

He stands alone in front of the lake and the hidden figure who begins to hum. A beautiful, feminine voice sings the melody of a haunting, wordless song. The music that calls out to him is something he has never heard before, and yet, it is achingly familiar. It reminds him of home, of love and safety with his pack. The hairs on his arms raise and the fog around the woman begins to clear.

Bile rises in his throat and his claws extend, gouging crescents into the palms of his clenched hands.

Kate Argent stands on the water’s surface, her dark blonde hair perfectly styled in waves that touch her shoulders. 

“Hey, Derry. Long time no see. Why don’t you look happy to see me?” She asks coyly in the raspy voice he used to find so alluring when he was younger. When he was _fifteen_ and she had been the beautiful, smart older woman who had, for some unfathomable reason, thought Derek was worth her attention. He had been so young and naive to have believed she ever truly cared for him.

A full year of his life was wasted on this monstrous woman who tricked him into believing she loved him back. A full year of sneaking around, thinking he was so damn cool for having an illicit affair with an older woman. A full year with her, when he could have spent it with his family instead. Making memories with them, being a better brother and son to them, showing them how much he loved them— before losing them forever.

Guilt and despair threaten to swallow him whole and the sense of loss is overwhelming in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. It feels as if he were sixteen again and the fire was only yesterday. 

He desperately craves the support of his pack, but Laura’s not here to comfort him. Laura will _never_  comfort him again. Because he lost her too.

The pack he grew up with is gone, everyone abandoned him to go where he can’t follow. 

He keeps getting left behind.

Kate takes a step forward, walking easily on the surface of the water as if it were solid beneath her feet. He takes a shaky step back. 

When she moves again, that's when he sees it. His eyes narrow, the flurry of his thoughts coming to a halt as he takes in what he's seeing. She doesn’t have a reflection in the water and, despite her movements across its surface, the water doesn’t react to her presence. There are no ripples, as if the water isn’t really there. Or she isn’t.

Because she _isn’t_ real.

It's an illusion.

Kate frowns at him. A brief flash of anger crosses her face but is quickly replaced by something gentler.

“Why are you afraid of me, Derry? Didn’t we have a good time together?” She asks softly, a flirtatious pout to her lips.

She gracefully steps forward again, moving closer and closer. 

His body is as rigid as he forces himself to fight against his instincts to run. It would be no use anyway. He stays still as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest, his wary eyes cataloguing the details of her as she comes to a stop before him. She smirks at him and tilts her head, eyeing him like she is appraising a prized animal.

Like he’s not only inhuman, but a trophy to be won.

It's the way she's always looked at him, but he didn’t know what that look meant as a teenager— as a child.

The illusion is disturbingly realistic and he's had enough of the kelpie’s games. He bares his fangs and tries to lunge at her, to rake his claws across her chest and end this, but he can’t. He's frozen in place. His breathing becomes shallow and quick, and he can't slow it down.

He’s not getting enough air, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. The feeling of grief grows until it's like thick, swampy water in his throat. Overwhelming sadness threatens to choke him, drown him, in his own sorrow. He grabs at his throat, gasping raggedly as he struggles for air.

It’s not enough. Black spots decorate his vision while coldness seeps into his skin and bones. The thought, no, the _fear_  passes through him that he might never be warm again.

Thoughts race through his head, jumbled and clear all at once:

_Why had he trusted her?_

_Why is she doing this to him?_

_Didn’t she love him?_

_It’s so cold. Please, stop._

_So cold._

_I’ll never be warm again._

_I want to be warm again._

It doesn’t sound like him. It sounds like the voice of someone younger, someone scared. But perhaps that's what he sounded like as a child.

He closes his eyes, giving in to the darkness. As he drifts away, he hears it.

“Derek?”

It's a new voice, familiar in a way, but he can’t muster the energy to respond. His eyes sluggishly crack open. He's waist deep in murky water, his body trembling.

Kate's gone, but who knows for how long. 

“Derek? You okay?” Stiles questions softly from the lake’s edge. He steps closer, uncaring of the water seeping into his shoes. 

Derek turns to him and— 

The lake has vanished and fog has thinned. He's dry, kneeling in the middle of the forest. Stiles drops down in front of him, his eyes holding a surprising amount of concern as he scans him for injuries.

Derek can’t smell anything anymore, the air is thick with the pungent smell of misery. He’s not sure if Stiles is real, but he hopes he is.

“Kate,” is all Derek says. It's all he needs to say.

Stiles’ eyes soften in understanding and he reaches up, his hand hovering just before Derek’s face. As if thinking better of it, he lowers it back down to his side. Stiles' hesitation only makes him feel worse.

Derek closes his eyes and focuses solely on inhaling Stiles’ natural scent. It's sweet and subtle, like honey, and eases his agitation as it replaces the smell of sadness. Stiles is real. 

He realizes, now that it's over, that he hadn’t smelled Kate, or anything else, while the illusion was happening.

“It wasn’t real,” Stiles murmurs.

“I know.” 

It's true. He knows Kate wasn’t real. The pond may not have been real either, and his emotions had been amplified by the creature. He knows all that, and yet, he has the niggling sensation that something is wrong.

Perhaps because kelpies can shapeshift, but can’t create illusions. And they can't manipulate emotions either.

“I saw my mom,” Stiles says, dully. Derek hates the pain and longing reflected in his whiskey-brown eyes.  “She, uh, said some shit."

He releases a huff of air, an almost laugh, but the tightness in his expression belies the fear beneath it. The fear that the fake-Claudia had been telling the truth. But whatever she said wasn't true. Claudia would never have hurt Stiles or made him look ashamed.

Derek takes a steadying breath and stands. Stiles follows.

“You know she wouldn’t have said anything hurtful to you,” Derek says gently. 

Stiles doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway.

“And you know that what Kate did wasn’t your fault,” Stiles says back. 

Derek’s mouth twists sourly. He doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he'll ever believe that, but he doesn’t want to give it any more thought. He focuses on something else instead.

“Kelpies don’t manipulate emotions,” Derek says in a low tone. The creature might still be within earshot.

Stiles nods, his face impassive, as if he'd come to that conclusion as well. “I think there’s more than one of them. Whatever they are.”

“How many?”

Stiles pauses. Derek can hear the gears turning as he thinks. 

“They were able to create multiple ponds. A separate illusion for us both. I imagine Scott and Allison are dealing with their own. I’d guess there’s at least three of them, maybe four, unless it’s a creature that can create and maintain multiple illusions at once.”

Derek watches as Stiles paces, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. In his nine years at the agency, he's never seen Stiles wear anything other than jackets and long sleeves. No matter how humid it became, no matter how strongly the sun bore down, or how worked up he got during a sparring session, Stiles never so much as rolled up his sleeves.

He can't help but wonder what Stiles is determined to hide.

“Did yours attack you?” Stiles blurts, halting in his tracks.

“No. She taunted me."

Stiles chews at his lower lip. Derek eyes the movement, wondering how long the lip could handle being bitten before it swelled and reddened.

He blinks back to reality as Stiles resumes his pacing. Derek grimaces at being so easily distracted. What's wrong with him? Clearly being partnered with Stiles is having a negative impact on his mental health.

“Mine didn’t either. So, maybe they’re not trying to hurt us. They’re trying to… what? Distract us with our emotions?” Stiles ponders aloud, tone rising in confusion. 

“Or they might be feeding off our emotions,” Derek says, incubi and succubi coming to mind.

Stiles tilts his head as if considering the possibility.   
  
“Usually creatures that feed off emotions would feed through physical touch. They didn’t touch us. They vanished when we both closed our eyes. Ergo, they’re not trying to feed.”

“Off _us_ ,” Derek corrects. “But they _have_ fed. Lydia said they’ve killed three hikers already. Left their bones in a pile at the edge of the pond once they were finished.”

Stiles’ lips press together in a thin line, but he doesn’t argue. Because he's right and Stiles knows it.

“We need to find Scott and Allison,” Derek says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's not a kelpie... what is it? Hmm...
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](https://teenshmolf.tumblr.com/) to chat with me about teen wolf, my fics, or whatever! :)


	8. Breathless (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Vague, but spoilery warnings can be found in the end notes.

_Derek rushed towards the briefing room, dodging people as he ran through the hallways. He was late, but he could still make it in time to say goodbye if he didn’t stop or slow down._

_With barely two minutes to spare, Derek ambled through the heavy doors. There was a crowd of agents gathered in the room, chatting in pairs and groups before they leave for their missions. Before he could locate his sister, Derek’s eyes landed on another familiar face among the people._

_Stiles stood in front of Scott and Allison, his head thrown back with laughter. Despite knowing his time was limited, Derek couldn’t look away._   _Stiles was in fitted black pants and a black shirt that tightly clung to his pecs, the agency’s navy blue jacket draped over his shoulders. There was a thick brown belt around his waist that held his gun, a thin black knife garter around his thigh that stowed his favorite dagger._

_Derek’s mouth went dry as his imagination wandered. He wondered if, while on a mission, Stiles would go to bed with the garter securely wrapped around one of his pale, muscular thighs. Inexplicably, Derek’s palms became clammy, a sudden nervousness in his gut that hadn’t been there before._

_It was suddenly apparent that Stiles, now eighteen years old, really was an adult; no longer awkward and lanky like he used to be. No, he was taller now, almost exactly Derek’s height, his body toned from the intensive pre-mission program. His large hands gestured excitedly as he spoke with his friends, his posture confident and relaxed._

_He looked incredible._

_Derek jolted guiltily as a hand landed on his shoulder, followed by Laura’s, “Hey, baby bro. Glad you showed up!”_

_To Derek’s mortification, she leaned in for a hug only to skitter backwards with her face scrunched in disgust._

_“Ew, why do you smell like…” She froze, her expression calculating as she noted the direction he’d been looking. Derek’s eyes widened with fear, his face heating as he shook his head._

_“Laura…” he said warningly._

_“No fucking way!” Laura shouted gleefully, obviously having realized who Derek had been reacting to._

_“Drop it,” Derek said threateningly._

_Of course she didn’t listen._  
  
_“Oh my god,” Laura gushed, lips split on a wide grin._

_“It isn’t what you think,” Derek said, wincing as his heartbeat stuttered on the lie. His shoulders slumped in defeat as she laughed. He never had been able to fool his alpha._

_“You seriously have the hots for my partner?” Laura cackled at Derek’s shame-filled expression. “Really? What’s doing it for you exactly? The tight outfit? The weapons? Or is it just Stiles in general?”_

_“‘Stiles in general’ what?” Stiles asked, having made his way over some time during Laura’s mocking._

_His beautifully inquisitive eyes landed on Derek, waiting for an answer. Derek floundered at the attention, at a loss. Thankfully Laura took pity on him and decided to speak up._

_“Just talking about how good you look,” Laura said. Derek shot her a glare, but her grin only expanded._

_A blush tinted Stiles’ cheeks as he smiled and shyly turned his head to hide it, clearly unused to receiving compliments. Derek’s eyes dropped to his neck, staring as his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. A waft of Stiles’ sweet scent hit his nose and his nostrils flared as he greedily tried to inhale more of it._

_“You think so?” Stiles asked, oblivious to Derek’s internal meltdown._

_“I do. How about you, Der? What do you think?” Laura teased, eyes glinting with mischief._

_Derek cleared his throat, but his voice was still raspy as he said, “Yeah, you, uh. You look good.”_

_It sounded stilted and awkward to his own ears, but Stiles seemed either unaware or unbothered by it. Instead, he beamed at the approval, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes from smiling so broadly._

_And, for a moment, Derek was breathless._

o0o0o0o

The problem with their plan to find Allison and Scott, is that, despite how simple it sounds, they can’t seem to locate the other two agents. They wander through the forest in silence, somehow not getting any closer nor any further away from the spot they’d started from.

After about twenty minutes of Stiles walking ahead of him, rebuffing any attempt at conversation with a curt, “I’m concentrating”, Derek’s patience finally reaches its limit.

“Are we going to talk about it or what?” he snaps, the last of his resolve crumbling. 

For a split second, he sees movement through the fog: a flash of a small, bare human foot disappearing behind the protection of a tree, but then he’s distracted by Stiles whipping around to face him.

“Talk about what?” Stiles says tonelessly, though his scent spikes sharply with irritation. 

As if Derek had done anything in the past twenty minutes to piss him off, other than try to have a civil conversation.

Derek throws his arms up, wanting to yell, _“Whatever it is that’s causing you to act like this!”_ But, instead, he goes with, “You avoiding me.”

Stiles snorts derisively and Derek’s eyes narrow at the sound. Why does he have to act like such an asshole? Can’t he see that Derek’s trying? Can’t he be serious for one minute? 

“I’m right here, aren’t I? Not exactly avoiding you.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Derek says, frustration building within him.

Stiles rolls his eyes as if, out of the two of them, Derek's the drama queen. He turns back around, clearly ready to drop this conversation too. 

A wave of anger swells and crashes over him, and Derek lunges forward. He snatches Stiles’ arm with clawed fingers, stopping him before he can walk away and dismiss him again.

Stiles reacts instantly, his eyes completely consumed by darkness as he shoves Derek back with inhuman strength, the force of it throwing Derek into the trunk of a nearby tree.

The bark is rough, leaving scratches and bruises against his back that start to heal as he looks up at his partner, stunned. Stiles breathes heavily, brown eyes wide and puzzled as he stares at his trembling hands like hadn’t meant to do that.

Derek pushes away from the ruins of the destroyed tree, sharp wooden edges scraping against his arms in the process. Adrenaline and fury fill him as he charges and wraps his fingers in the fabric of Stiles’ jacket, using it as leverage to shove him up against the rough edges of another tree trunk. 

Revenge feels good, the pained grimace on Stiles’ face satisfying something deep within him. The tree sways with the force of the impact and Stiles wheezes as Derek’s knuckles dig into his sternum.

“You don’t get to treat me like shit just because you’re angry,” Derek snarls, barely an inch of space between their faces.

“Oh? That’s hilarious coming from you!” Stiles sneers.

“I _apologized_ ,” Derek hisses, desperation seeping into his words. 

He doesn’t know how to _fix_ what’s broken between them. What if nothing can repair it? What if Stiles will never be comfortable around him again? What if he loses the last person who has ever truly given a shit about him?

“What can an apology do for me, Derek?!” Stiles cries out and Derek rears back at the depth of emotion in the words. The sadness, the betrayal, the hurt. 

He remembers Stiles yelling that at Lydia not too long ago, having felt betrayed by her despite her being one of his closest friends. Regardless of her apologies, she never changes— will never change. Stiles gets so many apologies, and yet, the people he loves continue to hurt him, without care. 

Derek swallows thickly, his own feelings of guilt rising to the surface. He is one of the many who didn’t care enough about him, who caused him pain, who let him down.

But he wants to change that. He wants to be better.

“It won’t fix all the shit you said to me! It won’t take back the fact that I was the one who shot Laura!” Stiles continues, his eyes shining, but not letting tears fall, staying strong even now, as if he can’t allow himself to fall apart in front of Derek. 

“It won’t give me the courage to leave.” He chokes on a dry sob, his shoulders shaking with the effort of finally spitting out the truth.

Derek’s eyes dart across his face, struggling to process everything. The courage to leave what? To leave Derek? The agency? The state? None of those options are acceptable.

“Don’t leave,” Derek says, quietly pleading. He pushes in closer until their bodies are touching fully, no space between them. 

Since Derek’s first day, Stiles has been at the agency. Like a staple in his life, he has _always_ been there.

When Derek was sixteen and haunted by the loss of his family, twelve-year-old Stiles was there, obsessed with trying to get Laura and him to smile. He would crack the worst jokes Derek’s ever had the misfortune of hearing, time and time again, despite never being successful.

When Derek was seventeen, Stiles was a little thirteen-year-old shit who, unfortunately, was very infatuated with him. He was relentless in his pursuit of Derek’s affections, using terrible pickup lines he got from who knows where in the hallways between classes. He wouldn’t stop until Derek shoved him into a locker or bared his fangs and snarled at him. But, even then, it only made Stiles’ cheeks pink, his heartbeat skip in something other than fear, and he would just come back to pull the same crap the next day. 

By the time Derek was twenty-two, he had enjoyed nearly five blissful years of Stiles leaving him alone. It wasn’t until Stiles became an agent that Derek had to face the uncomfortable realization that the annoying kid who used to stalk him had, in the blink of an eye, become a calmer, more reserved adult. An adult that was suddenly the beloved subject of nearly all of Laura’s stories, the reason behind so much of her laughter and many of her brightest smiles. And, before Derek knew it, Stiles had become someone that he actively looked for around the agency, interest sparking in him as Stiles would smile sheepishly at him, but no longer approach.

Derek cannot imagine, _refuses_ to imagine, life at the agency without him there.

“Don’t leave.”

Stiles shakes his head, expression forlorn, as if he wanted to make that promise, but couldn’t.

Derek presses closer, his nose against Stiles’ neck, greedily snuffling in the enticing scent laced with a hint of arousal. Stiles' breathing goes unsteady, but he tilts his head to the side in offering, baring his neck in submission. Derek’s grip loosens on his jacket, the submissive gesture having eased some of the urgency inside him.

“Derek,” Stiles says on an exhale, less like a name being spoken and more like a sigh of something else. Something more.

“You can’t leave me too,” Derek whispers brokenly, nuzzling his nose against the softness of Stiles’ skin, basking in the enticing smell while he could. He reluctantly pulls away, but raises his, thankfully human, hands to cup Stiles’ jaw. 

Stiles shudders, his heartbeat thundering between them as he inhales sharply, and Derek—

Derek kisses him.

He doesn’t know why he does it, really. Though he's thought about doing it for a long time now, late at night in the solitude of his room, he's never considered acting on the impulse before. 

Stiles is infuriating, able to somehow bury himself under Derek’s skin and demand that he be noticed. He's the most annoying, baffling, loudmouthed person Derek’s ever met. But he's also handsome, incredibly intelligent, and, despite earlier doubts, Derek knows he is loyal. He should never have questioned that, it seems so obvious now. But he'd been blinded by grief, influenced by everyone around him, surrounded by agents and superiors who all blamed Stiles for Laura’s death. Including Lydia and Stiles himself.

But he should've known better. He shouldn’t have doubted. And Stiles—

Stiles deserves better than someone as broken as Derek.

Despite that thought, he doesn't pull away.

The kiss is harsher than he'd intended it to be, more frantic and tinged with desperation. A searing kiss fueled by his overwhelming fear of being abandoned. His hands gently cradle Stiles’ face, holding him steady as Derek tries his best to wreck him with his lips and tongue.

Stiles moans as Derek’s teeth tug at his plump bottom lip, kneading it lightly with his blunt teeth the way he's wanted to for so long. He releases it and eases the sting with a pass of his tongue before reconnecting their lips.

Stiles’ hands clench tightly against the weapon-laced belt around Derek’s waist, using it to tug his lower half closer. His body arches into Derek’s, his tongue just as determined and kisses equally frenzied.

It's better than it has any right to be.

Derek has thought about this, about finally shutting him up by grabbing him and busying Stiles’ mouth with his own, for far longer than he is willing to admit. But what he'd imagined doesn't hold a candle to reality. He's dazed, beyond amazed at how _right_ it feels.

Stiles groans, cheeks flushed and lips red as he pulls back for a breath. Derek’s eyes lock on the pink of Stiles’ tongue as it darts out, licking at his plump lower lip. 

“You taste good,” he says, voice husky, before reeling Derek back in, his hands around the back of Derek's neck, fingers toying with his hair. 

Derek’s hands trail downwards, running slowly up and down Stiles’ thighs. He tugs his hips forward, forcing their bodies closer.

An approving rumble builds in Derek’s chest as Stiles’ hands wander, roving heated paths across his pecs and abs. Stiles tugs at the fabric as his kisses become more insistent, jaw opening wider and tongue teasing Derek’s. 

“Shirt. Off,” Stiles demands, breaking away to hastily remove his own. Derek eagerly complies. He tosses the shirt away with relief, glad to finally be rid of it in the sweltering heat of the forest.

Stiles’ well-defined torso dotted with attractive moles is exactly as he'd imagined. What he hadn’t anticipated, however, are the many tattoos covering Stiles’ entire chest and arms. His brain stutters to a halt. 

Thick, black tribal patterns decorate Stiles' left shoulder, a detailed grayscale crow pictured on the bicep just below. His right arm is adorned with a black silhouette of an upside-down forest that takes up most of the space on his forearm. Derek has never considered himself to be someone who finds tattoos particularly attractive, but the solid-black artwork is a stunning, and appealing, contrast to the paleness of Stiles’ skin. 

Derek’s tongue wets his lips, the desire to trace the designs with his tongue rising within him. Before he can act on the urge, Stiles’ fingers tangle in his hair as he reels him back in with a breathless whine.

It’s a sound too inviting to ignore. Content to take his time exploring every inch of the tattoos later, Derek focuses on securing his lips to the proffered neck in front of him. Stiles sighs in approval, his fingers encouragingly digging into the muscles by Derek’s shoulder blades. Derek sucks a mark on his neck, nibbling at the freshly irritated spot.

“Mark me. Make me yours,” Stiles encourages. 

God, yes. Derek captures his lips in a biting kiss, their teeth clashing before they adjust, lips a perfect fit against each other. He tastes amazing, smells even better, and he doesn’t want to ever stop doing this. Doesn’t ever want to stop kissing Stiles, biting claiming marks onto his neck, or drawing out his moans and gasps of pleasure.

It's only been a few minutes and he's already addicted to the feel of Stiles against him.

His eyes flicker from red to green behind his eyelids, unable to remain completely human. He breaks the kiss, pausing to try and clear his head. 

They shouldn’t be doing this in a forest, let alone a forest possibly occupied by creatures that have no problem _eating_ people.

“I don’t care. Please don’t stop,” Stiles says as if reading his mind. “I need you. Want you.  _Please_.”

A flash of heat runs through Derek’s body, his gums itching to let his fangs drop at the sound of Stiles begging. Derek’s resolve crumbles and he leans back into Stiles’ space, reconnecting their mouths.

Stiles moans his appreciation and that, of course, is when Scott finds them.

“Guys, we have a problem! It’s not— oh my god!” Scott flat-out screams in horror like he’s stumbled upon a pile of partially-decomposed dead bodies and, honestly, that is the only way to describe the overreaction. “ _Oh My God. OH MY GOD._ ” 

Like a bucket of ice water being poured over him, all of the overwhelming desire he felt up to this moment is destroyed. The two of them freeze, eyes wide and panicked, like deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

“Scott?” Allison’s voice rings out.

Scott’s voice is shrill with panic as he warns, “Stay back, Allison! _They’re not decent!”_

Derek jolts to life, snagging his dirt-coated shirt from where it had been tossed carelessly aside, and putting space between them. He is still adjusting it when Allison makes her appearance through the fog.

“What do you mean they— _ohhhh_ ,” Allison giggles, a blush forming on her dimpled cheeks as she awkwardly waves at them both.

Scott’s bent over, hand on a tree for support as he loudly retches. Derek rolls his eyes at the dramatics of it, though his face feels like it is on fire at having been caught in their compromising position.

Stiles is beet-red, the flush extending from his upper chest to his forehead. But, to Derek’s dismay, his expression is tight with barely-concealed discomfort, his scent soured with shame as he tucks his arms against his chest, clearly self-conscious about his bare skin.

It’s then that Derek spots something he had missed earlier. The sight of scar tissue on Stiles’ right shoulder, the raised skin trailing in five streaks down to his bicep. Derek’s stomach rolls violently, ashamed to face the damage his claws had left behind.

He doesn’t linger on the sight, not wanting to add to Stiles’ discomfort. He rescues the discarded shirt and jacket from a pile of leaves, batting away debris and handing them over, his gaze firmly pointed away from Stiles’ body.

Stiles snatches them, the scent of anxiety wafting off him is almost overwhelming at close proximity. Derek moves away, coming to a stop by Allison where the air is less odorous, while Stiles hastily dresses, the jacket sleeves hiding the skin from view once more.

Derek’s frown deepens, wanting to reassure him that he doesn’t need to cover the intricate designs. But Stiles’ tense posture and visible upset keeps him at bay.

“So...” Allison breaks the uncomfortable silence. “It isn’t a kelpie like we thought.”

“Obviously,” Stiles says flatly, but his shoulders are still hunched with discomfort and anxiety. Derek’s eyes dart between the two of them, a feeling of dread low in his gut.

“It’s a siren,” Allison continues and Derek’s breathing falters. Scott glances over at him, expression pitying. Apparently he is finished with his theatrics.

Goddamnit. Derek wipes a hand across his face, exhaling deeply as aggravation and distress seep into his bones. 

If it is a siren, then it’s been influencing them, giving them visions, heightening and manipulating their emotions, possibly from the moment they set foot in the enchanted forest. 

It hadn’t been real. But how much of it? Part of it? All of it? His palms feel clammy and he has the urge to throw up, repulsed by the thought that possibly none of it had been real.

He risks a glance at Stiles and forces down a pitiful whine at the open devastation on Stiles’ face. It's clear now that they were acting under the siren’s, or _sirens’_ , influence. The enthusiastic consent he thought he'd been getting wasn’t really consent at all.

How had he not noticed? How had he not realized something was wrong? Stiles had been so furious with him prior to this mission that he’d been avoiding Derek for days. And yet, after only a few moments of arguing, he was begging Derek to take off his clothes. Derek had been so eager to have Stiles pressed up against him that he didn’t notice the drastic change in attitude.

If he had stopped, for one millisecond, to think about what was happening, he would've noticed how unusual it was that Stiles, who wears his clothes like armor, was discarding them without hesitation.

He’s an idiot. A complete, useless _idiot_. Why can’t he stop fucking everything up? Derek’s eyes slam shut and his jaw clenches as he swallows to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

How could he have managed to mess things up even more? There’s no hope of fixing things now. Stiles is never going to want to speak to him again.

Scott’s eyes flick towards him with concern, obviously able to smell the thick waves of despair coming off him.

“I think there’s more than one,” Stiles says softly, his posture seeming to lose its tension as he focuses on the situation at hand. Allison nods as if she had come to a similar conclusion.

“What do we do now?” Allison asks. “Our mission was to bring back the kelpie for rehabilitation and control training, not multiple sirens.”

“Kelpies would have been so much easier to deal with,” Scott whines. “And so much less mentally scarring.”

Stiles is frowning, his expression contemplative as he eyes the endless expanse of woods around them. Derek follows his gaze, trying to see what has him looking so intense. But there’s nothing. 

Absolutely _nothing_.

_Oh_. The woods have gone completely and utterly silent around them. The sounds of bugs have disappeared, no more frogs ribbiting or owls hooting. Nothing but pure, deafening silence.

The kind of silence that sometimes means that someone is listening.

“Do any of you know,” Stiles says, voice low and bitter, “how sirens are made?”

Derek pauses at that, mentally searching through all the information he’d learned while in training. Jennifer, the agency’s ‘Supernatural Creatures and Beings’ instructor, had taught them about plenty of supernaturals over the years. The list ranged from violent to nonviolent beings, deep sea creatures to creatures that only exist on the borders of life and death. They’d learned about kelpies and selkies, mermaids and merrow, succubi and incubi. They may have covered sirens, but only briefly.

He vaguely remembers them being born in bodies of water, but the details of it are fuzzy. Though, the pond in the middle of the forest suddenly makes more sense now.

Stiles seems to take their answering silence as a ‘no’. He nods to himself, his palm rubbing over his mouth as he thinks.

“I have a hunch.” There's a heaviness to Stiles' voice that instantly has Derek concerned for what’s to come. “And it’s not good. It’s really, _really_ not good.”

“As in, ’we might die’ _not good_ or…?” Scott asks, cautiously.

“No, we’ll be okay,” Stiles mumbles, still displeased by whatever theory is running through his head. “But we need to summon them and bring them back with us.”

That… doesn’t sound like a good idea at all, actually. But Derek doesn’t say as much, not feeling like he has the energy nor the will to argue with Stiles right now.

Scott’s eyes practically bulge out of his head and Allison looks like she’s about to disagree, her brows furrowed and mouth open to refute his idea.

“Do you trust me?” Stiles asks, eyeing each of them briefly, though he darts his gaze away from Derek, as if he didn’t need or want his response.

It hurts surprisingly more than he’d expected, but he supposes he deserves it. He finds himself nodding anyway, albeit dejectedly.

“I don’t think they want to hurt us,” Stiles declares.

“But—”

“Scott, they could have hurt us at any point so far, but they haven’t. They’ve just been manipulating us so that we’ve been distracted and disoriented while they hid. They’re running from us, not attacking.”

“They killed three hikers,” Allison refutes.

“That doesn’t mean they wanted to or meant to,” Stiles says.

“A kelpie can be rehabilitated. They can learn to feed off of non-human meat, but a siren will never be able to control its desire for revenge, its urge to kill humans. They cannot be rehabilitated once they’ve lost their humanity,” Allison says, voice determined. “We need to discuss other options.”

“And by ‘other options’ you mean killing them.” 

Allison’s jaw ticks, but she doesn’t disagree.

Stiles lets out a frustrated growl. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, because _supposedly_ sirens are evil and mindlessly violent, but it isn’t their fault, okay?”

Allison snorts and even Scott looks dubious. Derek’s lips twist sourly, but he stays silent, not knowing enough about sirens to have a strong opinion. Plus, he is fairly certain that Stiles doesn’t want to hear his thoughts anyway.

For the first time, as far as Derek’s aware, Stiles glares at Allison.

“They’re still partly human. Just like werewolves,” he snaps.

“Werewolves are _mostly_ human,” Allison corrects. “Sirens are _barely_ human. They’re revenge-driven creatures that lack the awareness of their actions. They’re practically dem—” she clenches her mouth shut, eyes wide and horrified by her slip up.

“No. Go ahead and finish your thought, Allison. They’re what? Demonic?” Stiles’ eyes turn black.

He's purposefully changing his eyes to make his point, using his own nature against them. By forcing the ugliness of it in their faces, he's reminding them that though they can’t always see the darkness within him doesn’t mean it isn’t always there, hidden below the surface of his human skin.

“Come on, Stiles. You know she didn’t mean it like that. Don’t be a jerk,” Scott says.

Stiles’ eyes return to brown, but he unleashes his agitation on Scott instead. “So you’re fine with her picking and choosing which supernatural creatures are worth saving?”

“No, but…”

“There is no ‘but’ here, Scott! That's literally what she wants to do,” Stiles exclaims.

“I wasn’t trying to say they weren’t worth saving!” Allison argues, more frustration in her tone than anger.

“Yes, you were!” Stiles' arms flail. “You said that, compared to werewolves, they weren’t _human_ enough.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth!” Allison cries, frantic and upset. Her eyes brim with tears, spurring Scott on.

“Stiles, knock it off!” Scott warns, a hint of a growl to his voice.

“Say I’m interpreting it wrong all you want, but you’re the one spewing shit that sounds an awful lot like Argent propaganda,” Stiles snaps at Allison.

She flinches back, betrayed hurt flashing across her face. Derek reaches out and places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, offering a gesture of support. It's immediately shrugged off and Stiles steps away, turning his back as he attempts to compose himself.

Derek drops his hand from where it'd been hovering in the air. He opens his mouth to suggest they all take a few minutes to gather themselves when he spots _her_ peeking out from behind one of the trees.

A little girl.

She's small, eight years old at most, her skin a ghostly shade of pale-gray. Her curly blonde hair is tied up in a pale blue bow that matches her dress, her feet bare against the forest floor, splatters of mud on her toes and calves.

Derek clears his throat loudly, getting the attention of the other agents, and causing the girl to startle and slide back behind the tree. Stiles’ expression softens, seeing the little fingers still visible around the side of the trunk.

“It’s okay, we’re not here to hurt you,” Derek calls out, making his voice as gentle and coaxing as possible. 

Stiles blatantly gawks at him, mouth slack with shock, as if he hadn’t thought Derek capable of speaking so kindly.  Does he really think so poorly of him? Derek keeps his face stoic, hiding the sharp pang of disappointment he feels.

The little girl peeks out again, but her eyes fall warily on Allison, clearly having overheard their conversation. Allison raises her hands in pacification, a somber look on her face as she’s faced with the creature she had thoughtlessly advocated killing. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Are you alone?” Derek asks, remembering Stiles’ assertion that there had to be more than one siren creating all of the illusions.

The girl steps out from behind her cover. As she does, three other figures emerge from their hiding places: a little blond boy about the age of five crawls out from the inside of a log, another blond boy about eight years old— perhaps the girl’s twin— steps out from another tree, a one-year-old toddler clutched protectively in his small arms. All of them are inhumanly pale and dressed in simple, pale blue clothes, their feet bare and caked in dirt.

“You four are way too young to be using sexual influence on people,” Stiles lightly scolds, his lips twitching upwards at the chagrined looks on their faces.

“We just wanted to be left alone,” the girl says with a pout. “But you wouldn’t leave.”

“I know, but we want to help. You guys must be scared out here by yourselves,” Stiles says. 

“We’re not scared. We’re waiting for our mom,” the oldest boy says, though his voice wavers, as if he doesn’t really believe what he is saying.  


“She said she’d be right back,” the little boy says cheerily, unaware of the dubious expressions on the older twins’ faces.

“Is she the one who brought you here?” Stiles asks.  There's a hint of sorrow in his voice. He smiles at the children, trying to appear as calm and friendly as possible, but Derek sees the tightness around the corners of his mouth and the sadness in his eyes. 

Derek's breathing falters at the sight of three little heads bobbing in unison. 

“Oh god,” he chokes out, inhaling sharply in horror and disgust as the details of siren mythology suddenly come back to him.

Sirens weren’t born in water.

They were created in it.

“Is she the one who drowned you?” Stiles quietly asks, but his voice resonates like a shout in the silence of the forest.

Sirens are vengeful, bloodthirsty creatures, that's an undeniable fact. Their primary focus is to manipulate people and make them see, feel, and hear things until their prey, knowingly or unknowingly, drown themselves. Sirens want others to suffer as they have suffered, to drown in a body of water with the last thing they see being the face of someone they had once loved and trusted. 

Just like them.

Suddenly, the child-like voices he'd heard when succumbing to the grief during his illusion, made sense. The thoughts about the cold and begging for it to stop, about never feeling warm again, hadn’t been his. They were theirs. 

Allison gasps, her hands clutching an equally saddened Scott, and Derek forces himself to breathe through his mouth, unable to handle the pungent smell of despair.

The children freeze at the question, all four heads cocking to the side in an eerie fashion. 

Do they know what happened to them? Are they aware of what they’ve become? Of what they’ve lost?

The children are emotionless, their expressions uncomfortably deadened, and toneless answers only adding to the no-longer-human quality about them.

“Did she…?” the older boy asks.  


“We don’t remember,” the girl says.

“The water was cold,” the little boy says, his voice more aware than the other’s. The twins peer down at him with dull eyes and matching frowns. “I didn’t want to go in, but she made me. And now I feel cold. All the time.”

All four of their heads move slowly in unison, their eyes locking once again on the agents in front of them. Like the heat has been abruptly sucked out of the air, goosebumps form on Derek’s arms, his breath visible as he exhales.

“But you’re not cold,” the little boy says flatly.

“Your fear is warm,” the girl says.

“Their feelings are so… warm,” the boy says, eyes closing in pleasure as if he were basking in the heat from a toasty fireplace on a cold winter’s day.

“We want to _eat_ it.”

The hair on Derek’s arms stand on edge, a chill running through him. He can’t see their breath in the air.

Despite his pounding heart, Stiles keeps his appearance aloof. His smile is unwavering as he casually talks to them like they didn’t just admit they wanted to eat him. “How long have you been waiting here? For your mom to come back.”

The children’s lips purse, but they remain silent; whether they don’t know the answer or don’t want to share it, is unclear.

Silent tears drip down Allison’s cheeks as she observes the interaction, Scott’s hand rubbing comforting circles against her trembling shoulders. 

“There was a hiker killed about three and a half months ago. Have you been here that long? Was that you?” Stiles asks. 

The kids eye him as he plops down in the dirt, his eyes never moving from them. Derek follows his lead, taking a seat on the ground beside him. Allison and Scott silently do the same.

At their display of nonchalance, the kids take a few steps closer. Their curiosity anchors them to their humanity, the cold-blooded hunger receding.

“We tried to get her to leave us alone, but she wouldn’t,” the girl says, sounding remorseful about the murder.

“I’m _sorry_. I was hungry,” the little boy blurts, lower lip and chin wobbling.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the older boy says softly, brushing a comforting hand through his curls. His younger brother nods, but hiccoughs as he wipes with chubby fists at the tears cascading down his face.

Derek’s heart breaks at the sight. These kids never had a chance to live normal lives, to know the joys and sadness in being human. Their mother cruelly snatched their future from them. They’d loyally followed the person they’d loved and trusted most in the world, only to be betrayed, to be _murdered_ by her. And still they continue to believe in her, waiting obediently for her promised return.

“We want to help you. We have a place that can take you in,” Stiles says.

The girl’s head tilts, face blank as she appears to process the truth of that statement. 

“You don’t like it there. They’re not nice to you. You want to leave,” the girl says plainly.

Derek’s heartbeat skips unpleasantly, knowing it to be true, but wanting so badly for it not to be. But she can read them, in the way that all sirens can, gifted with the ability to delve into people’s psyche and shed light on the ugliest, most buried truths.

“We won’t be welcome there,” the older boy says.

“Our mom will be back,” the girl says.

“We’ll wait here,” the little boy says with a sniffle.

“Our place will treat you nicely, keep you warm and happy. They don’t like me because I cause trouble. They’ll like you though, because you seem like good kids. Am I right?” Stiles asks, his smile faltering at the way they fidget uncomfortably.

“Mom said we were too loud.”

“And messy.”

“And that I cried too much.”

“Well, at our refuge, you can have a warm bed, books to read, and movies to watch. It’s so much better than this,” Stiles says, gesturing to the vast emptiness of the woods.

The children still seem hesitant and unsure about whether or not to give up on their mother’s return. Derek observes Stiles’ glum expression, as if he's run out of ideas and doesn’t know how to convince them.

Despite being so good with these kids, Stiles hasn’t had much experience with other children. He spent most of his early life alone with Claudia and only really interacted with Heather during his early teen years.

Stiles didn’t have a normal childhood like Derek. Claudia had tried to make up for it, Derek knows that from having watched her with Stiles and Heather. But there was only so much she could do for them. 

With that in mind, Derek makes an offer they likely won’t refuse. He crosses his arms, his chest puffing out with authority as he quirks an eyebrow.

“We have ice cream.”

o0o0o0o

The van doors close as Jared, their perpetually disgruntled van driver, wordlessly shuts them inside the vehicle. Derek had expected a couple of questions, or at least a side-eyed glance, when they showed up with four children chattering excitedly about ice cream instead of a captured kelpie. But, to Derek’s surprise and mild concern, Jared wasn't fazed in the slightest.

Derek blinks back to reality when Stiles, sitting in a seat opposite him, leans across the empty space and speaks. 

“Dude. You lured children into a van with the promise of ice cream,” he says. He releases a strange sound, like the high-pitched squeal of a deflating balloon, before bursting into laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Stop laughing.” Derek's ears burn in embarrassment.

“I can’t!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Derek says, gruffly. But there's an excited flutter in his stomach, because Stiles is talking to him in spite of everything that happened earlier.

In the seat next to Stiles, Scott is holding a sleeping Alfie, the siren toddler, watching fondly as Allison leans across the empty space between them to instruct the older siblings, Alice and Andrew, on how to buckle themselves in. Adam, the younger boy, is held securely in her lap. It’s not the safest way to travel with small children, but they hadn’t anticipated the need for car seats. 

Once the twins are strapped in between Stiles and Scott, Allison sits back and offers Stiles a tentative smile. Stiles returns it, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Hey, you guys wanna see something cool?” Stiles abruptly asks the twins. Receiving enthusiastic nods, he amiably unzips and wiggles out of his jacket, the short-sleeved shirt underneath revealing the expanse of skin all the way to his shoulders. Derek’s taken aback by the unexpected action, but bites his tongue, not wanting to do or say anything that could possibly deter him.

Though he may not understand why, it's easy to see the self-consciousness in Stiles’ eyes, the insecurity obvious in the tension of his shoulders as he holds out the ink-covered skin. But the twins simply look closer, matching expressions of wonder on their faces. Derek subtly leans in too, but Stiles shoots him a sly, knowing smile. Derek’s cheeks redden at having been caught, but he won’t apologize for it.

Truthfully, Stiles has always made him curious. He talks a lot, but doesn’t reveal much about himself. He never discusses his magic, his training with Claudia, or what he remembers of his four years before the agency.

Derek can’t help but wonder if Stiles shared anything meaningful with Laura. If he did, she never talked about it with Derek, only ever relaying stories about goofy things Stiles had done. A pang of jealousy jolts through him as he considers the possibility of Laura having seen Stiles’ tattoos before. Had he told her when and how he’d gotten the ink done?

Derek blinks back into focus, startled as the tattoos— if that’s what they were, he has his doubts now— move and change, each one taking on a completely new appearance than before. 

Before their eyes, the forest morphs into grayscale mermaids: one brushing her hair while perched on a rock, another in the water below, her mouth open wide with hundreds of sharp, needle-thin teeth protruding from the orifice. Various sea life decorate his other arm: seals, sharks, schools of fish, all of their fins and tails vacillating as they swim.

The only tattoo that remains the same and stationary is the crow on his left bicep, its eyes creepy and realistic. Derek frowns at it, uncomfortable with the way it appears to be looking directly at him.

“Woah,” Adam says with awe, having followed Derek’s lead and leaned in for a better look.

“Is that magic?” Alice asks.

Their quiet delight doesn’t last long. Derek flinches at the abrupt screams as all four children shift in their seats, trying to get as far from Stiles as possible, though they’re hindered by their seat belts. Adam clings to Allison as he cries while the twins grab at Scott’s arms. They’re all shrieking and pointing as something sharp pokes out of the crow-shaped ink. A glowing green line outlines the tattoo that hadn’t been there prior. 

Stiles nonchalantly peers down at it, unfazed by the sight of a 3D triangle protruding from his body. As if sensing the coast is clear, the object pushes through in a swift motion, beak emerging fully, followed by well-known beady eyes, wings, and clawed feet.

Walmart’s smooth dismount becomes a graceless tumble across the van’s dirty floor as they make an abrupt turn. It’s only then that Derek realizes he hadn’t seen the bird all day. The lack of his obnoxious presence had been a nice reprieve, actually.

Thankfully, the panicked screaming subsides as the kids point and giggle at Walmart’s misfortune. The bird doesn’t seem to be bothered by their amusement, since he hops his way back to Stiles, plopping down on the vacant space next to him.

“Don’t you dare make a scene or you will never taste the juice of a plum again, understand?” Stiles threatens through the corner of his mouth. A feeling of fondness settles in Derek’s chest, Stiles’ protectiveness over the children making him feel unexpectedly warm. 

Walmart ruffles his feathers in what he assumes to be fear. Stiles’ cheeks become splotchy red when he spots Derek unabashedly watching him. He’s quickly distracted from his embarrassment as Alice tugs at his arm.

“I’m sorry I made your mom tell you she left you because she hated you,” Alice loudly whispers. 

Derek winces in sympathy at the way Stiles stiffens, pointedly avoiding looking at any of the others as he replies, “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it. It was just an illusion.”

“I’m sorry I made you guys fight,” Andrew adds.

“And we’re sorry we made you kiss,” Alice continues, her wide eyes darting between Stiles and Derek. “But you already wanted to do that, and kissing is a good thing, so it’s kind of okay, right?”

“We only boost feelings, so we didn’t really _make_ them do anything,” Andrew grumbles at Alice, as if trying to talk his way out of any future punishment. He’d make a great lawyer.

Derek really, _really_ wishes they had stopped at the first apology. As if he didn’t already know that his feelings for Stiles, his desire to kiss and touch him, had been the cause of what had happened.

He's not delusional. He knows that whatever positive feelings Stiles had for him vanished when Laura did, when Derek made him the prime target of his hatred and cruelty.

“We’re s’posed to be saying sorry, Andy,” Alice snaps.

“Well, I’m not sorry! They seemed happy about it!” Andrew hisses back.

_Jesus Christ._

Stiles’ face is a vibrant shade of red, his eyes directed towards the ceiling, as if asking the universe what he's done to deserve this torment. Derek agrees wholeheartedly, covering his own tomato-red face with a hand as he silently wills the ground to swallow him whole.

“It’s fine,” Derek croaks. “Just please stop talking about it. And don’t do it again.”

“So we still get ice cream?” Alice asks, cautiously hopeful.  
  
“If you stop talking about what happened in the forest and don’t say a word about it to anyone.”

“ _Especially_ not to Lydia,” Derek emphasizes. 

Stiles’ eyes are wide as saucers as he nods in frantic agreement, pointing at Derek with his thumb. “What he said. No telling Lydia _anything._ If you keep your tiny mouths shut, you can have as much ice cream as you want. Every single day.”

The twins grin devilishly, pleased with that answer. But how exactly is Stiles planning on making that happen?

At his questioning glance, Stiles winks playfully. 

“I’m willing to sacrifice my daily ice cream for the greater good. And Scott’s. And Allison’s,” Stiles says, leaning in conspiratorially. 

Derek’s pulse quickens at the close proximity, his eyes taking in the soft expression on Stiles’ face as he looks at him like… he isn’t afraid.

“Not Heather’s?” Derek asks, his own face softening in response. 

To his dismay, the playful comment somehow misses its mark. Stiles’ face closes off and he pulls back, his smile dropping instantly.

“Not Heather’s,” Stiles mumbles, clearly agitated, to Derek’s bewilderment.

Derek’s thoughts are a whirlwind in his head as he tries to figure out what had caused the sudden upset. He ends up shutting his mouth, shifting back in his seat and mentally berating himself for ruining the moment.

“Ice cream!” Adam shrieks in excitement, the loud burst of noise prompting Alfie to awaken and cry.

Derek sighs and closes his eyes. There are three hours left of their journey back to the agency and he’s already mentally and physically exhausted. 

This is going to be a long, painful ride home _._

As though the universe is determined to prove him right, there’s a sudden, deafening crunch of metal as something huge crashes into the side of the van. The vehicle slams onto its side, the seat belts thankfully keeping them from being violently thrown with the impact. Derek eyes the others, relieved to see everyone miraculously unharmed.

Then the backdoors are torn open.

o0o0o0o

_It was a beautiful, clear night. Millions of stars were visible, spread out as far as the eye could see. It had been a perfect, cloudless June day in the Outside. Derek and Laura, both twenty-four years old, had taken a week’s vacation, just the two of them, and spent all of it camping in the woods surrounding their old home in California._

_It had been a great escape from the agency, and yet, Derek was relieved at the thought of returning. He missed the rest of his pack, having missions that kept him busy, and, though he wouldn’t ever admit it, he missed the endless chatter of one specific person most._

_They were lying on their backs, enjoying the rare, undisturbed view of the stars as they shared thoughts and stories regarding recent missions._

_“And then Stiles said, ‘what do you mean I have to suck it for it to work?’” Laura cracked up as she recalled the memory, barely able to get the words out through gasps of laughter. There were actual tears in her eyes, her hands clutching her stomach as she rolled around on top of their sleeping bags._

_Derek grinned, able to picture it perfectly. The indignant way Stiles would have said that, and the following embarrassed cry of, “Oh, come on. You know that wasn’t what I meant, Laura!”_

_Laura’s giggles slowly subsided and she looked at him in consideration. “You know, Der, I can’t help but notice that he’s really grown up well. His pretty whiskey-brown eyes, adorable moles, long fingers that would be great at—”_

_“Laura!”Derek groaned._

_“—playing piano. What? Were you thinking they’d be good for something different?” Her eyes glinted mischievously and Derek’s cheeks warmed, embarrassed to have fallen for the trap._

_“He’s too young,” Derek said weakly, though it wasn’t much of an argument anymore._

_“He just turned twenty. He’s an adult now and, surprisingly, he acts like one too. I know you like him, don’t try to deny it. He likes you too, has liked you for a long time, actually, so what’s your hangup?” Laura asked._

_“He’s annoying,” Derek said. The truth was that he was scared. He was afraid of getting too attached, of inevitably messing things up like he’s prone to doing, of potentially loving and then losing him through the dangers of their unusual lives._

_“He’s always been annoying. But you know what else he is? Fiercely loyal. Funny and quick-witted. Cunning. Badass.”_

_Derek snorted in disbelief. Sure, he thought Stiles had a lot of good qualities, but being ‘badass’ was not one that he would have chosen to describe him._

_“He is not badass.”_

_Laura’s eyes narrowed. “You poor, clueless thing. You haven’t seen what the kid can really do. He’s incredible with his magic. It’s honestly indescribable sometimes. He may be as powerful as Claudia was.” She snatched a handful of chips from the Dorito bag resting between them. She gracelessly shoved the handful in her mouth and, to Derek’s horror, continued speaking as she chewed, “I’m just saying. You could do a lot worse. He’s one hell of a catch, and if you wanted to date him, that’d be okay with me.”_

_Derek scowled at the crumbs tumbling from her mouth. Clearly she spent too much time with Stiles if his horrendous table manners were starting to rub off on her._

_“If you think he’s so great then why don’t you date him?” Derek said childishly, peeved at her continuous efforts to pry into his love life._

_“Maybe I will.” Laura smirked at the resulting sneer on his face. She grew serious as she lay back down, gazing at the stars with a heavy sigh._

_“Have you ever thought about love? Like, completely ignoring Kate—because her feelings weren’t actually real—have you thought about actually falling for someone? The real, heart-pounding, I-Want-To-Be-With-You-Forever kind of love?”_

_“Is there someone you’re interested in?” Derek asked, curious as to what brought this on. With a huff he playfully added, “Stiles?”_

_Laura chuckled, but the pensive look in her eyes remained. “No, not Stiles. You and I both know he only has eyes for you. I’m just talking about…in general.”_

_“I haven't really thought about it,” Derek said. He grabbed a few chips, eating one at a time._

_Laura rolled onto her side to stare at him, her head propped up by her hand as she traced a triskelion, the Hale pack’s symbol, in the loose dirt._

_“Sometimes I think I’ll never get the chance if I stay at the agency,” Laura admitted quietly._

_Derek was startled by the somber confession. He’d had no idea that Laura had any issue with them staying at the agency. In fact, he’d been under the impression that she liked it._

_“You want to leave?” he asked._

_Laura frowned at him, her finger halting its motion in the dirt. “Don’t you? This isn’t the life Mom would have wanted for us. She wanted us to be happy with a large backyard and boring jobs that make us lots of money which we spend on lavish vacations. She wanted us to be normal. For us to have the same opportunities as anyone else, regardless of our abilities.”_

_Derek went silent, not sure how he felt about that. Of course, Laura had a point. This life wasn’t what Talia would have hoped for her children, but they were doing okay, weren’t they? They were content. Or, at least, he had thought they were._

_Apparently he’d thought wrong._

_But he would follow Laura wherever she chose to go, even if the thought made him ill with unease. The agency had given him a purpose, something to focus on instead of being miserable and guilty over his role in his family’s death._

_What would he do if he were back in the Outside? Would it be better this time? Or would feelings of shame come flooding back, reminding him that he didn’t deserve to have a normal life after what he’d done?_

_Laura’s hand brushed against his arm, pulling him from his thoughts. She smiled at him, her eyes patient and understanding._

_“It’s just something to think about, Der. There’s no rush. We have time.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS/SPOILERS:** Off-screen child abuse and death (sort of?)


	9. Demonic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU everyone for your lovely comments on the last chapter. I appreciate your amazing feedback and understanding during this tough time. Here's an extra long chapter for your patience!
> 
> PSA: In case you missed it, there's artwork for this story. Check out chapter 1 to see it!
> 
>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Increased depictions of violence/mild-to-moderate gore.

‘ _That’s a yeti,’_ is the first thing Stiles thinks when the backdoors of their van wrench open.

It is colossal in size, that much he knows for sure, since only the white, matted fur on its stomach is visible. The yeti lowers its head into the gap, a gigantic finger curling around the hinge of the door and denting it with its weight. It's vaguely ape-like in appearance, with thick, white fur and blue skin on its face and hands.

Stiles has never seen a yeti before and, up until this moment, he hadn’t thought they were real. The few photographs of the species were blurry and unclear, leading many to doubt their authenticity. But now, Stiles is certain this is a yeti, and the species is undeniably real.

A burst of warm air hits them as the beast’s nostrils flare on an exhale, its face merely feet from their own. The head tilts down, and the van creaks ominously as its other hand grabs at the upper corner. Thick blue lips part, exposing two massive fangs protruding from its lower jaw. The head dips further, revealing eyes that glow a fierce and ominous _red_.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Stiles groans as he and the others instinctively back up.

This isn’t just a yeti.

This is an _alpha_ yeti.

There's a bullet hole in and an arrow protruding from its shoulder thanks to Allison’s quick reactions, though they don’t seem to be having any effect at all. 

In hindsight, it is probably obvious that weapons wouldn’t have much of an effect, since yetis have incredibly thick skin beneath their fur to keep them protected against the low temperatures of snowy mountains and high altitudes.

Stiles acts on instinct, grabbing the closest screaming kid and shoving them into Scott’s arms while Derek wrangles the others.

Walmart thankfully decides to be useful and morphs as he flies at the yeti. Black smoke wraps around the creature, disorienting it enough that it falls back a few steps. This doesn’t give them more than a couple of feet of space, but it's enough for them to escape from the wreckage. 

They take shelter behind the van, hearts pounding as the yeti howls in rage, the sound reverberating through the snowy trees. Its fat claws slash again and again through the smoke, but the humongous paws swipe ineffectively through it. 

Snow pours down, the ground covered in a thick layer of snow that crunches beneath their feet. The weather was supposed to be in the 80’s today, but, thanks to the yeti’s influence, it feels as if they’re in the Alps instead of in the Southern US. 

“Scotty, you’re on babysitting duty,” Stiles says as he loads his gun and reattaches it on the belt at his hip. He probably won’t need it, but it may come in handy if he runs out of magic.

Not that he’s planning on letting that happen this time around.

“Stiles—” Scott starts, an expression of clear disapproval on his face that Stiles knows all too well.

“Sorry, but I’m not risking these kids or you guys,” Stiles says. 

Scott frowns, displeased, but he reluctantly nods in understanding.

Despite the nature of their job, Scott’s never been much of a fighter, which isn’t much of a surprise considering he never wanted to be a field agent. He was supposed to be working alongside Deaton in the infirmary, and still would be, if he hadn’t been bitten. If he hadn’t been drafted into the field despite his low exam scores and dislike of violence.

Scott has a heart too soft and too pure to kill, which has always been his greatest weakness. He would've died ten times over in this job if it weren’t for Allison stepping up to the plate.

Her moral compass, much like Stiles’ and the rest of the agents’ at the SUPE agency, is skewed heavily towards ‘inflict irreparable bodily harm whenever necessary’ instead of Scott’s preferred method of ‘save everyone, hurt nobody’. 

Her determination to do what needs to be done at any cost and willingness to cover for Scott’s bleeding heart is the only reason he’s survived this long.

Despite their occasional conflict over how to handle supernatural creatures, her protectiveness of Scott is one of the many reasons Stiles likes her.

Stiles peeks around the back of the van, chewing at his lip as he sees the line of people by the tree line.

“Hunters,” Derek says, right next to his ear. Stiles swears, startling at the unexpected closeness, eyes wide.

“Personal space is a thing,” Stiles hisses.

Derek frowns at his overreaction, but they don’t have the time for talking right now. Allison and Scott both are wearing matching expressions of wariness as Stiles turns to face them. The children cling to them in terror, their distress sending a surge of protectiveness through him.

“So there are hunters. A lot of them,” Stiles relays with more enthusiasm than he feels. 

Allison’s expression tightens as she peers down at the kids. She doesn’t voice what they all know. The hunters want the sirens. Whether or not they know that the children aren’t kelpies is debatable, but doesn’t really matter in the end. They want whatever creatures they can get their hands on; if it includes killing SUPE agents at the same time, that’s an added bonus.  


“Nobody has to get hurt. We just want the kelpie. If you give them up, we’ll let you go safely,” a feminine voice yells out, barely audible over the yeti’s angry snarls nearby. 

Stiles’ eyes instinctively lock with Derek’s, both of them noticing the same thing. The hunters are working with old information.

“They’re children!” Allison shouts back.

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Derek says, tone harsh. Which, considering his history with the hunters, is understandable. 

“It should!” Allison says shrilly.

They jolt at the sound of bullets and the yeti’s cry of fury. The yell reverberates through the clearing, shaking the trees and sending snow tumbling off their branches.

Stiles cautiously leans past the van, swearing at the chaos. Walmart’s morphed into a solid black copy of the yeti, the two of them engaged in a game of chase. Walmart’s harmlessly dashing through through the line of hunters, the yeti following closely behind, its gigantic feet stomping and crushing people as it runs. The hunters scramble to get out of its way, some of them raising their guns to shoot. 

A woman stands off to the side, her eyes narrowed and locked on Stiles despite the distance. She’s fairly short and appears to be in her twenties, decked out in military-style clothes. Her darker skin stands out against the paleness of the snow, her curly hair somehow unfazed by the weather.

She must be one of their leaders, since hunters prefer to have women in charge.

Abruptly, the yeti falls down onto the top of the van, the metal caving in under its impressive weight. Stiles ducks, barely avoiding being hit by a giant flailing arm. A human hand roughly pulls him back by his shirt until he’s a few feet from the vehicle. 

Derek scowls at him, his fingers untangling from Stiles’ clothes.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he hisses.

Stiles gazes back at the scene, watching as yeti-Walmart steps back to give the real yeti room to stand and resume its attack. The yeti slices repeatedly through the its doppelgänger with its claws, emitting a deep, frustrated growl as Walmart remains uninjured.

“How much longer can he keep that up?” Derek asks, with a hint of concern.

“Til he gets tired, I guess. We’ve never tested it,” Stiles says.

They need to come up with a plan.

As if reading his mind, Derek asks, “What do you have in mind?” 

“Not much, I’m winging it here, dude,” Stiles says weakly under the intensity of his pale gaze. 

He licks his lips, thoughts racing with potential solutions. He watches Alice and Andrew as they clutch at Scott’s chest, their eyes wide with fear. He hates the idea of involving them, encouraging their use of their powers, but it's their best chance. The hunters don’t know they aren’t kelpies, don’t know what they're capable of. They won’t be expecting it.

“Think you can make the yeti focus on the hunters?” Stiles asks the twins.

“Stiles, is that really a good idea?” Allison asks, her eyes flicking nervously towards the children.

“It’s our best option,” Stiles says. “Unless you have a better idea?”

Allison’s lips press flat, but she nods in reluctant agreement. He understands her hesitation. Every time the children use their abilities, they lose part of themselves, their hunger for blood taking over their humanity.

He's prepared to come up with a new plan if Alice and Andrew don’t want to do it. And he can’t blame them, if they don’t. They’ve spent the past three months losing themselves in their thirst for revenge; it’s not unthinkable that they might not want to further subject themselves to that. But, to his surprise, the fear in their eyes has been replaced with interest, their grins inhumanly sharp as they nod their agreement. They close their eyes, clasping their hands together as they focus on the mental manipulation.

“Awesome.” Stiles takes a steadying breath and imagines his familiar in front of him. With a _pop_ of green smoke, Walmart appears, a crow once more. “Change of plans. Protect Scott and the kids. Stay with them.”

A chill runs through him at the thunderous roar behind them. What if he had moved too quickly and the twins weren’t ready yet? They’re silent and unmoving next to him, but that doesn’t mean much. Anything, or nothing, could be going on in their minds.

The sound of rapid gunfire and screaming is unexpectedly reassuring. Stiles stands, his head peering over the smashed in van and eyes wide as he takes in the commotion. The hunters’ weapons are focused on taking down the yeti that’s currently sweeping them up in its fists and smashing them brutally against the ground.  


Stiles sits back down to find the eyes of his team members boring into him.

“Well?” Scott prompts, his arms wrapped protectively around the quiet and anxious Alfie and Adam.

“The yeti’s in full-on hulk mode. If there were a time for us to make our move, now would be it.” Stiles says. 

The sirens won’t be able to hold the illusion for long, since they'd used up a lot of energy in the forest. But, if they act fast enough, it might last until the fight ends.

Derek apparently agrees, because, when Stiles goes to ask for his opinion, there’s a huge fluffy wolf with luminous red eyes, where a human Derek used to be.

Stiles gapes at him, unashamed of his blatant ogling because _Derek_ is a _giant wolf!_ Not many werewolves can shift fully. It takes a lot of focus, patience, and skill to achieve. Since Derek isn’t the epitome of calm and composed, coming from a family of full shift werewolves must give him an advantage.

“You look so badass, dude!” Stiles exclaims, tamping down the urge to reach out and touch his fur, to feel how soft it is against his hands and face. 

Derek huffs, preening at the attention, his chin lifting higher and edges of his mouth twitching upwards in a semblance of a smile.

“Derek and I are going,” Stiles says to the others.

“I’ll back you up,” Allison says, arrows nocked and aimed at the ground, her bow ready to be raised.

Derek bounds out from their shelter, tackling a hunter, and ripping his throat out before moving on to his next target. Stiles charges towards the chaos, watching as a hunter raises a quivering gun to shoot at the massive wolf, only to be brought down by an arrow. 

Bullets whiz by Stiles’ face, barely missing their target. He swears at his stupidity, redirecting his focus to himself. He will have to hope that Derek can hold his own and that Allison will take out any unnoticed threats. 

Stiles raises a hand, the barrier in front of him swallowing the following rounds of ammo. He flicks his wrist and the barrier bends, its middle stretching towards him. Like a slingshot about to release, the barrier snaps forward, sending the projectiles back. They hit multiple hunters, who grunt and fall at the impact.

It's violent and their blood is warm as it melts the snow around their injured bodies. Stiles watches it emotionlessly, as if he were observing from a distance or through a television screen. If he pretends it isn’t real, that it is a movie, or if he lies to himself and believes that they were terrible people with no family or loved ones to mourn them, he can handle it.

“Did you ever watch Star Wars, Derek?” Stiles calls out, though his eyes are steady on the hunter advancing towards him. 

He lifts another barrier as the hunter raises his gun. When the bullets stop, weapon empty, Stiles drops the barrier and reaches out a hand, imagining one of his favorite scenes from the fantasy movies. He had always thought Darth Vader was badass, and he inspired more than a few of Stiles’ best magical attacks.

The hunter grasps at his throat as magic wraps around his neck and lifts him into the air, the pressure slowly suffocating him.

Though Stiles doesn’t see it, he hears Derek’s answering growl.

“Personally, I always thought they could’ve been much more creative with their use of the force,” Stiles says. “But they did have some good ideas.” 

When he's met with silence, he turns his head and grins widely at the glare Derek is directing at him. He didn’t know wolves could scowl like that, but Derek’s face is incredibly expressive, even when fully shifted, his fluffy eyebrows scrunching in judgement over red eyes.

Derek releases a vicious snarl, attention diverting as he lunges at a nearby hunter. Stiles follows his lead and returns to his opponent, lips pursing in disappointment as he hovers, limp and useless.

A blunt force hits Stiles, catching him off guard and causing him to drop the lifeless hunter to the ground. Stiles blinks and swivels around to face a woman whose gun is trained on his head, Walmart’s unmoving body on the ground between them.

“There are _many_ more of us than there are of you. You must be out of your minds to think you can fight all of us. For each one of us that you kill, two more will replace them,” she says.

Stiles’ lips twist, bored by the spiel. He twists his magic around her, and her face changes from red to purple as she struggles for air.

“This isn’t a fight. It’s a massacre,” Stiles says. 

There's a brutal snap of his fingers, and then her neck. She crumples to the ground.

“Do you know why defensive magic is so. damn. exhausting?” 

She doesn’t reply. Not that he expected her to. He offers the answer anyway.

“Because it’s against my nature.”

He steps over the puddle of black blood at his feet, lips pursing at his dead familiar. Logically, he knows the sight should upset him, should make him feel bad that the bird was in pain for him. 

But he doesn’t react. 

He doesn’t feel anything at all.

He mentally slips away, losing his grasp of reality in an instant. Or had it been happening slowly for such a long time now that he’s barely noticed it?

Vaguely, in some corner in the back of his mind, he knows he’s lost control. He’s aware of what’s going on around him, despite the chaos, but the world seems dimmer, colors muted and gray-toned.

His magic leaks steadily out of his fingertips, pouring from him as if excited by the unexpected freedom. In an instant, his body flares with pain, fire coating every inch of his clothes and skin. 

It hurts so badly, the heat of it intense enough to burn his skin, if only his tattoos let it. It’s agonizing and he grits his teeth to keep from screaming, but the pain is also good. Like prodding at a sore tooth, it’s an addictive kind of hurt.

He peers down at the flames flickering over his arms as a mockery of a grin forms on his face. Despite his expression, he feels no joy, only hunger. 

There’s a vast emptiness inside of him, a hollowness that begets a different kind of pain. The ache of something that’s missing. The flames ease some of it, the searing heat reminding him of who he is and where he truly belongs. 

But his surroundings aren’t right. The forest should be on fire too. _Everything_ should be swallowed up by flames, reduced to nothing more than ash. He hungers for destruction and thirsts for blood. His magic thrums under his skin, thrilled to be used the way it was meant to. Destroying things. 

The flames drip from his fingers like liquid, landing in the snow and trailing a path towards a wave of hunter reinforcements. The sentient flame reaches their feet, growing in height and crashing down upon them, engulfing them like a fiery tsunami.

They scream as they burn alive. It’s pathetic. They know nothing if they think this is pain. He’s being _merciful_. They should be thanking him.

Stiles chuckles as they stumble and succumb to the fire. He knows their torment is good, but he doesn’t know who they are or why they’re on fire. 

He glances down at his hands, laughter stopping short. Why is he on fire? Not knowing should bother him, right? That’s something he should be aware of, but his mind is blank.

Why doesn’t he know? 

He can’t remember. 

_Who is he?_

When he lifts his gaze, it’s to see someone charging towards him with a raised fist. 

Stiles extends both hands, putting the backs of them together, fingers bent like imitation claws, before slowly pushing outwards. He envisions his magic doing the same thing inside the man’s stomach.

The attacker staggers and drops to his knees, face ashen as his shirt and stomach are torn apart, his unrestrained insides falling out of him.

Stiles uses the move on a few others, some of them getting close enough to splatter him with their blood. When one of them manages to land a hit against him, their knife stabbing under Stiles’ bicep, an uncontrollable wave of fury floods through him. He shreds him open and sends him flying into the treetops, hoping he ends up impaled on a branch or two.

There are only a dozen or so remaining in the field around him. Stiles’ eyes seek out a large wolf that’s aggressively tearing at a prone body, but before he can think about hurting him, a massive blow hits his side and tosses him into the side of the van. 

Air surges from his lungs at the impact, leaving him gasping and aching in the wet snow. He glares up at a yeti as it bares its teeth and, with a thudding rhythm, steps towards him.

Undeterred by the flames, the yeti raises its arm and Stiles braces for a whole lot more pain. But it doesn’t come. 

With a resounding roar, the yeti swats at the wolf whose jaws are clamped tightly around its thick neck. 

The distraction gives Stiles an opening, and he scrambles to his feet, ignoring the pain radiating through his entire body. His spine stiffens as he turns and a bullet pierces his shoulder, the force of it knocking him off balance. His back hits the ground hard. A furious woman aims her pistol again, this time aiming for his head.

“Stiles!” Someone yells in the background.

“Don’t touch him, Scott!” A feminine voice cries.

Stiles ignores the commotion, his focus on the woman in front of him. He ignores the flare of pain in his shoulder and lifts his hands, palms facing out, a universal sign of in surrender. Her finger tightens around the trigger, and he huffs a laugh. With a hurt yelp, she drops the weapon as it melts and burns her hands. It hits the snow, the metal oozing outward like lava.

Her chest heaves with furious breaths, face red and eyes blazing, as she pulls a wire from around her waist. She unflinchingly wraps the ends around her hands, uncaring of the severe burns on her palms. 

“It’s fine. A witch should be properly beheaded anyway,” she spits. 

But, as her feet move in the snow, her smirk falters and expression becomes confused. She coughs, blood splattering onto the ground, and staining her lips and teeth.

She collapses, body twitching and eyes wide as blood continues to spill from her mouth.

“I’m doing to your insides what I did to your gun,” Stiles says, his voice deadened and stilted, as if words were a concept he was trying to remember how to use.

He gives her shoulder a friendly pat before he stands, grimacing at the uncomfortable wetness of his clothes.

The remaining eyes are drawn towards him, not looking nearly as scared as they should. That will be remedied soon enough.

He may not know why he’s here or how things escalated to this point, but he doesn’t care. None of that matters. He doesn’t need a reason to kill, to torture. It’s his favorite way to play, and he’s going to have fun, taking his time and savoring their screams. 

His eyes land on the black wolf, its red eyes locked on him. Bingo.

The animal is a good place to start.

Before he can lift a finger, a black bird lands in the snow, its body turning to smoke as it morphs into a new shape. It turns into a man, the figure seeming familiar in a way that Stiles can’t place. He is pale, the same height, with an upturned nose and moles decorating his face. His body isengulfed in flames, eyes black, and Stiles rears back at the image reflected in them. 

Is this a copy of him, perhaps?

Is this what he looks like?

Stiles reaches out to it, curious. He's suddenly overcome with determination. He _has_ to touch it, needs to do it. The clone holds its index finger to its lips and a sense of calm comes over Stiles, his hunger dwindling and flames shrinking.

Before his finger makes contact, something soars through them both. 

The figure vanishes in a cloud of smoke as an arrow embeds itself in Stiles’ forearm. He blinks down at it, yanking it out and dropping it to the ground as if it were nothing more than a splinter. 

Black blood drips from his arm, staining the snow at his feet. He doesn’t feel the bullet or arrow wound, the pain of the now-blazing fire overwhelming everything else.

Another arrows whizzes through the air and pierces his left shoulder, exactly where the bullet hole is. 

“Mother _Fuck!”_ Stiles grunts, gritting his teeth. Okay, admittedly, that one hurt like a bitch.

“Allison, stop shooting!” Someone yells. “We have restraints!”

Stiles’ teeth gnash as he sets his sights on the archer standing yards away, another arrow nocked and aimed at him.

“He’s gone feral,” the archer says emotionlessly.

He may not know who she is, but he likes her. 

He'll make her death torturously slow.

Stiles smiles at her, his lips tacky as if wet with blood. She'll be his next target then. He raises his right hand, grunting as something tackles him.

His waist, pinned by a heavy weight, hits the ground first, his head smacking down immediately after. He groans at the sharp pounding in his head and neck from the jarring impact.

Lip curled viciously, he snarls at the shirtless man above him. He tries to strike at him but— can’t. His arms are pinned above his head, something thick and stiff around his wrists. 

Iron cuffs. Likely ones that have been blessed, going by the way his skin burns and sizzles where the metal touches his skin.

A wordless howl of rage rips from his chest, his whole body vibrating with the strength of it, as he struggles against the restraints. The flames are gone, the usual warmth of his magic humming under his skin nowhere to be found. Stiles’ chest heaves and he glowers at the man above him, but is momentarily distracted by the way the charred skin on his attacker’s bare chest heals instantly.

Stiles’ skin doesn’t do that. What is the man above him?

And what did he want?

How did they get here? How did Stiles get here?

There are so many questions and his breathing quickens, nostrils flaring with every panicked breath.

“It’s okay. Relax. I need to take this out okay?” The man says quietly, pale eyes boring into Stiles’ as he pulls the arrow from his shoulder and presses a hand against the wound.

Lost in his outrage, the words flow past Stiles without recognition. With vicious screams, he thrashes and tries to buck the man off, but to no avail. Frustrated tears well up in his eyes. He’s so _angry_ , his insides feel like they’re scorched with the acidity of it, unable to contain it, but having no safe outlet for it either.

He wants to burn this man alive. Tear him into shreds and spread the pieces out for the birds to eat. 

Despite his obvious blood-thirst, large hands cradle Stiles’ face, the gentle touch stunning him into silence, scaring him like nothing else has.

“How are we going to transport him? Will we have to knock him out?” the strange man asks, his gaze unwavering. Stiles’ eyebrows scrunch, the words falling on uncomprehending ears. 

Soft thumbs trace circular patterns on his cheeks. It’s soothing. Without his permission, Stiles’ shoulders sag, tension seeping from them. He tries to scowl up at the man, but he's pretty sure it looks more like a pout, irritated at being unable to understand what he wants.

“The pain should’ve anchored him,” a woman says, out of view. 

“He doesn’t need more pain,” the man says, quietly. “You shouldn’t have shot him.”

“It’s protocol, you know that. If one of us goes feral, they must be subdued at any cost to prevent further casualties. You know that, Derek,” the woman says. 

“It’s Stiles!” The man snaps at her. 

Stiles responds to his anger, recognizing that emotion. He grins and pushes into the hands around his jaw, silently encouraging him. If he is going to snap his neck, he might as well do it. The man appears startled by that, looking back down with a frown.

“It doesn’t matter who it is! We have to do what’s best for everyone, not just one person,” the woman says, sounding upset or angry.

“He matters,” the man says. “He’s been through too much. _I’ve_ put him through too much. I won’t cause him more pain.”

Realizing that the man isn’t going to kill him anytime soon, Stiles grunts his annoyance, though he lets his eyes drift closed, allowing the soothing voice to wash over him.

“I think you’re calming him. Keep talking, maybe he recognizes your voice,” the woman says. 

“You, uh, killed over half the people here. Laura wasn’t kidding when she said you were stronger than you look, huh,” the man says. 

Stiles’ opens his eyes, locking with pale ones. He doesn’t understand, but something about him seems familiar. Like he is someone Stiles knows or once knew. 

Does he really know anyone though? Does anyone know him?

Isn’t he alone? 

He feels alone. 

“I’ve never seen someone have the organs pulled out of their body before. Probably wasn’t a pleasant way to go. But I guess that was the point, wasn’t it?” 

Stiles tilts his head, pressing his nose into one of the palms resting at his jaw, nuzzling it. Warm. The hand feels _warm_. A pleasant kind, not like the fire that had scorched him with its touch. He doesn’t know why, but he likes the softness of the man’s voice and care in his touch, as if he doesn’t want to cause more harm.

He doesn’t know. The realization sends a shudder through him, a short noise of despair releasing from his throat. Will he ever know? Or will he be like this forever?

What if he'd never been anything but this?

With a sharp inhale, the man asks, “Stiles?” 

There's a gust of wind before the hands and body pull away from him, leaving him bereft and cold in the snow. Stiles whimpers at the loss, but, sensing a new presence, shifts his head to the side to see the clone from before. 

The copy kneels by his head, peering down at him with a crooked, inhuman smile. He slowly reaches out a finger, tapping lightly on the tip of Stiles’ nose. 

With a gasp and a full-body jolt upwards, Stiles regains his grasp of reality, a shock of memories and awareness zipping through him. 

He’s Stiles Gajos. Twenty-one years old and special agent for SUPE agency. He’s on a mission and…

Derek’s standing, naked and barefoot in the snow, looking distinctly concerned. Allison’s next to him, her weapon trained on Stiles. 

...and he’s not a monster.

Walmart, seemingly bored now that his job is done, vanishes with a puff of dark smoke.

“You shot me! Twice!” Stiles yells, indignant, groaning in pain as he moves his cuffed wrists into his lap, the movement jostling his wounds. 

Allison takes that as her cue to lower her bow. She offers him a sheepish smile and even her dimples look guilty. “It was protocol...”

Ah, of course she was following protocol. What a surprise. Allison, the goody two shoes, continuing to strictly follow the company’s rules. 

Fuck.

Stiles makes the poor decision to glance down, feeling suddenly lightheaded and dry-mouthed at the sight of his blood-drenched clothes and hands. Was that his blood or the hunters’? His nose scrunches in disgust, gagging when he feels the tacky residue on his face and mouth as well. That is _unsanitary_.

The arrow wound in his forearm steadily oozes blood, the hole in his shoulder in a similar state. 

He’s going to bleed to death. This is it. This is the end.

He’s not panicking. He’s not.

“Oh my g _—_ I’m gonna throw up,” Stiles whines, hands going clammy as he dry heaves.

“Stiles? What’s wrong?” Allison asks, frantic and concerned.

“What do you mean ‘what’s wrong’?! I have holes in me!” Stiles shouts.

“They’ll heal. You’re part… you know. You’ll be fine. And they’ll make for some cool scars, right?” Allison says, trying and failing to make him feel any better.

“I look like swiss cheese!” Stiles cries.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek says, disapproving.

Stiles whips his head up to glare at him, but the action causes him to notice the devastation around them. 

Oh.

The once white snow is covered in red and partially melted from the warmth of the blood. Lifeless bodies of their enemies littering the ground, entrails tangled up in tree branches like sick, early Halloween decorations.

He stares in shock, mind only half-aware of what had happened. Obviously, he is responsible for this destruction, but he doesn’t remember doing it. He's sitting here, trying to be funny, but how many people has he slaughtered in the past half hour? 

Gaze lifting once more, he pales at what he finds. Or doesn’t find.

“Did I hurt any of you? Scott? The kids?” He rasps, terrified of an answer he won’t like.

Allison shakes her head.

“We’re all fine,” Derek reassures. Stiles sags with relief.

His eyes soak up the violence, ashamed, as he forces himself to face what he’s done. No wonder people keep leaving him. Who wants to stay with someone as violent and fucked up as him?

This is disgusting. Horrifying. 

He’s the worst kind of swiss cheese. 

Stiles huffs a tiny laugh at the thought, wiping his nose with rough, metal cuffs that leave an unpleasant tingle in the wake of their touch. He fights the temptation to fall apart completely, not sure he’ll be able to put himself back together if he does.

He’s tired of this, of being the monster SUPE wants him to be. 

Is this the life he was destined to have? Is this all he’ll ever be? Is this living?

He lost control _again_ , his magic and base instincts overwhelming him _again_. He tried to kill people he loved _again_. 

He'd been lucky the first time; his mother and Heather had been unharmed in the end. But his luck is bound to run out. 

How long would it take before he kills a loved one?

“I wanted to tear your spine from your body,” Stiles says to Allison, voice cracking at the almost-reality. 

“But you didn’t,” Derek says, resolute.

Recognizing he's back to normal, Allison steps towards him, key in hand. Stiles raises his hands in offering, nodding his thanks as the heavy cuffs drop to the ground. He sighs in relief, tugging his sleeves down to cover the burnt skin around his wrists.

Stiles shakes his head at Derek, unable to verbalize all the ways that is wrong. Because he had wanted to do it, was going to do that without any hesitation, and he would have, if Derek hadn’t stopped him. The only reason he wasn’t responsible for Allison’s death is that Derek had interfered.

On second thought, perhaps protocol was made for a good reason.

Allison should’ve aimed for his head and saved them all future trouble.

He keeps the bitter thought to himself, knowing it wouldn’t be well-received. They wouldn’t understand anyway. It’s not that he’s suicidal or that wants to die. He doesn’t. But he’d rather take a bullet to the brain than live after killing those he loves. 

To regain consciousness, only to find their battered corpses around him...

No. He wouldn't survive that.

As always, he shoves the negativity to the back of his mind, filing it away in an already crowded mental box that will inevitably fill up and lead to his next mental breakdown. But at least it won’t be today, right at this moment.

Thank goodness for compartmentalization. 

He waves off Derek’s attempts to help him up and unsteadily rises to his feet. He clutches his injured shoulder with his right hand and he hisses as his magic cauterizes the wound.  It’s a shitty fix, but it’s the best he can do until Deaton can inspect and clean it properly.   
  
Stiles spots the overturned and partially caved-in van nearby. Shit.  He whistles at the damage, his hands on his hips as he turns back to Derek. He rakes his eyes appreciatively down Derek’s uncovered torso, stopping at the waist because he’s not sure he wants to know the exact details of what his dick looks like.

He has _some_ sense of personal boundaries. Okay, he doesn’t. He doesn’t need additional reasons to fantasize about Derek. He does that enough as it is.

“You look like you have some decent muscles on you. You can lift that, right?” Stiles asks innocently, jutting his thumb out in the direction of their ruined transport. “I’m sure the dents will buff right out with a few good punches too.”

Derek's expression is distinctly unimpressed, though it's missing any real heat. Stiles must be ridiculously gone over him if an annoyed stare makes his insides feel all mushy.

Or maybe that was an after-effect from being set on fire. He’s not entirely sure.

“You have magic. You lift it,” Derek says. “Why should I do all the hard work?”

“Oh? I’m sorry; you do all the hard work?” Stiles says incredulously, gesturing widely at the piles of corpses surrounding them. “I’m pretty sure ninety-percent of this body count is mine.” 

It’s a fact that disturbs him, but that doesn’t mean he won’t shamelessly use it to his advantage when necessary.

“Excuse me?” Allison interjects, though it goes ignored.

Derek scoffs at him. “That’s my point. You could probably lift it without breaking a sweat. Why should I waste my energy?”

Stiles’ mouth clamps shut and eyebrows furrow, unsure of how to respond. That hadn’t sounded like an insult. In fact, it sounded like a compliment.

“Was that a compliment? Are you being _nice_ to me?” Stiles asks, horrified.

“I can be nice,” Derek says defensively. 

Stiles eyes his reddening ears, bewildered by what’s happening.

“Not to me you can’t,” he says. 

Derek scowls. “Why not?”

“Because we’re not nice to each other! We bicker. That’s our thing. Don’t ruin our thing, Derek.”

“Maybe I want to change ‘our thing’.”

“Why change what works fine?!”

“How is this working fine? You were avoiding me!”

“You need to put on some clothes!” Stiles abruptly shouts, startling them both into silence.

He hadn’t meant to say that, but it isn’t fair for Derek to expect him to think logically when faced with all of _that_. 

“What,” Derek says flatly. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Why are you naked in the first place?” Stiles asks shrilly, his limbs flailing painfully.

“I can’t shift with my clothes on!” Derek says, arms crossing over his chest and causing his biceps to bulge. The action draws Stiles’ attention to the thick dark hair on his chest that trails down to… 

He raises his eyes to the sky with a whimper. Why is this happening to him? He only has so much self-control.

“You could bring extra clothes,” Allison says, mouth closing when two equally annoyed expressions are directed towards her.

“I have a spare set,” Derek says gruffly. At Stiles’ judgmental expression, he adds, “When was I supposed to put them on? While I was distracting the yeti so it didn’t kill you? Or while I was preventing Allison from shooting you?”

Allison has the decency to look ashamed, but Stiles waves a hand at her as if to shoo the guilt away. He already forgave her. Then, Derek’s words replay and he jolts, eyes bulging.

“Shit! The yeti!” Stiles gasps.

Allison slowly blinks at him. “It’s knocked out.”

“It’s what?!” Stiles exclaims. When did that happen?!

“I smashed its head against a rock,” Derek says, gesturing to where the yeti lies, unmoving in the snow by the trees.

“Oh. Nice,” Stiles says, reluctantly impressed. 

Derek’s lips twitch and Stiles feels that fuzzy warmth in his stomach again. 

“How long will it stay like that, do you think?”

Derek shrugs.

Stiles’ eyes drift to the completely crushed van, expression tightening. Jared’s bullet-riddled body lies motionlessly beside the wreckage. He hadn't talked much — or at all —  but he'd been one of them. It’s always a shame to lose an agent, van driver or not.

“We couldn’t have saved him. The hunters got to him the moment he opened the door,” Allison says softly, following his line of sight. 

“We’ll have to call for a new van,” Stiles says, detached. He eyes the giant body of the yeti with a grimace. “And a trailer.”

“Uh, guys,” Scott says, voice faint in the background. He goes unnoticed.

“I already informed Lydia,” Allison says.

“What? When?” Stiles asks. How much has he missed? “I didn’t see you call anyone.”

“Wow. You were really out of it, huh,” Allison says with concern.

Stiles stares pointedly at Allison, channeling Derek’s bitch face the best he can. He thinks he succeeds. 

“So sorry I wasn’t paying attention. I was busy being possessed by a demon.”

“Is it technically a possession if you’re both the demon and the human in the scenario?” Allison asks.

“Gee, I don’t know. Do you happen to have a Ouija board we could consult for clarification?” Stiles says, words dripping with sarcasm.

“A little help!” Scott yelps.

“I was just asking,” Allison grumbles.  
  
“No, no, no! Get that out of your mouths! What are you doing?! Stop!”

The sound of Scott’s terrified cries has the three of them tensing and seeking out the source of his panic. 

“For fuck’s sake.” Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. 

He’s done. So done. Completely fed up with this mission.

“Are they… Oh, that’s unsanitary,” Allison says, low and disturbed.

Derek grimaces, though he appears to be only mildly bothered by the situation, which is good. They’ll need as many hands as possible for this.

“Yep. They are,” Stiles confirms glumly.

The three of them make their way over to where Scott stands, frazzled and frantically trying to stop the four siren children from eating the dead bodies. Despite his best efforts, as soon as he manages to successfully pull one blood-soaked child off a body, the next one has already begun gnawing on a severed limb.

“Stop eating his face!” Scott cries at Andrew, holding a rabid Alice above him as she tries to claw out his eyes. 

“Alfie, put that foot down! You don’t know where it’s been!”

o0o0o0o

_Stiles was fifteen years old, seated at his desk with his head propped in his hand. Braeden, his Fighting and Torture Techniques instructor, had drawn an outline of the human body on the chalkboard and was labelling the most vulnerable areas._

_Stiles chewed his fingernail as his knee bounced. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Normal fifteen year olds weren’t learning about incapacitating enemies in under sixty seconds, were they?_

_It wasn’t that he didn’t like Braeden. He did. She was a great teacher; she was knowledgeable and patient, but most importantly, she was always honest with him, even if the truth wasn’t pretty._

_But, no matter how great a teacher she was, he couldn’t forget that Claudia didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want him learning how to kill and torture._

_This wasn’t what she wanted for her son._

_“Are you paying attention?”_

_Stiles jolted at Braeden’s voice, yanking the jagged fingernail from his mouth._

_“What?” Stiles asked dumbly._

_The look Braeden gave him had him sinking abashedly in his seat. “You need to pay attention, Stiles. This information is important if you want to stay alive.”_

_“If I want to kill people, you mean,” Stiles said sourly._

_“Yes. You will be expected to kill people. That’s always been a part of this lifestyle. Accept it and move on,” Braeden said, as if it were that easy. As if he could wake up one morning and happily think to himself, ‘Such nice weather out, I think I’ll murder someone today!’_

_“Have you killed people?” Stiles asked._

_It was something he often wondered about in the seven months she’d been teaching him. Had she used these techniques before? If she had, did it make her feel anything?_

_“Yes. In many violent and excruciatingly painful ways, why?” Braeden said casually._

_“Do you regret it?” Stiles asked._

_“No. Never regret being good at something,” Braeden said, eyeing him before moving away from the chalkboard._

_Stiles watched her with wariness as she sauntered closer to him, eventually coming to a stop in front of his desk._

_“You’ll be very good at it too. It’s in your nature. Your magic is made to destroy things; it thrives on it. Embrace that.”_

_Stiles swallowed, uneasy at the thought of blood-stained hands, agonized screaming, and pleas for mercy. Was it ‘in his nature’ if the thought made him ill?_

_He remembered the ferocity in Claudia’s voice as she had yelled at Natalie, verbally tearing into her for suggesting Stiles start the agency’s so-called ‘defense training’._

_“He was born to kill,” Natalie had said._

_“He’s a child, not another weapon for you to load and aim at whomever you please!” Claudia hissed, forcibly moving Stiles behind her as she stormed towards the Director._

_“I suggest you pick your words more carefully, Claudia. My patience with you is wearing thin,” Natalie said acidly._

_Stiles watched, astounded, as the usually refined and composed Claudia lost her cool, spitting on Natalie’s polished heels with pure disdain._

_“You say it’s in our blood, but we’re more human than you’ve ever been,” Claudia snarled, grabbing Stiles’ arm gently despite her fury, and ushering him out of the room._

_Two weeks later, Claudia had vanished._

_Focusing back on their conversation, Stiles said, “My mom didn’t kill people.” His eyes narrowed at Braeden’s harsh burst of laughter._

_“Oh, honey, Claudia killed more people in her first year here than you can count. That woman was incredible. Though she stopped once she started mentoring you. Waste of talent, if you ask me.”_

_Stiles’ jaw clenched at the careless way she talked about Claudia; like she wasn’t a person with a conscience or soul._

_“And what if I decide I don’t want to kill anyone?” Stiles asked, his chin tilting up in defiance._

_Braeden tsked. “Kid, you won’t have a choice. And, I’m willing to bet, you’ll actually start to like it.”_

_“Because some random ancestor of mine happened to be a demon? Or because my magic’s a little more destructive than most? That means I have no choice but to be a bloodthirsty monster?” Stiles snapped, losing his calm at her disheartening words._

_“No. You’ll be a monster because you’re a human who’s lost all hope. Your mother’s dead, you’ll never find love within these walls, and you have no friends,” Braeden said._

_“You have no future beyond this place.”_

_Stiles’ blood ran cold at the honesty in her voice. Despite her harsh words, her eyes held nothing but pity as she looked at him._

_“You have no choice, Stiles, because you’re human and you’re desperate. And desperate people do terrible things. Unforgivable things. With or without demon blood.”_

o0o0o0o

It's dark, morning hours just beginning when they arrive at back at the agency.

They've been in the lounge for nearly an hour, impatiently waiting for Lydia to take custody of the sirens. Stiles’ eyelids droop with tiredness, but somehow the children are wide awake, shouting excitedly as they argue over a board game. 

Derek is more alert, watching the kids play with a little smile on his lips. Alfie’s half-asleep in his arms and the adorably domestic sight is incredibly sweet, but also bitterly painful. This is the future Stiles wants so desperately. Derek by his side and softness in his eyes, like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Lost in his daydream of impossible futures, Stiles’ head bobs and eyes close, only for Alice’s loud shriek to pierce through the air and jolt him out of his partial-slumber. He wipes a palm over his eyes, lifting his head off Derek’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles through a yawn.

“It’s fine. You can sleep,” Derek murmurs.

With a curt shake of his head, Stiles refocuses on the floor where Adam, Alice, and Andrew bicker over something or other. He’s too exhausted to care. 

Scott and Allison had left earlier to debrief Harris on the mission while he and Derek got stuck babysitting. Granted, at the time, they all had thought that Lydia would be arriving in only a few moments.

Now, fifty minutes later, it's clear that they had been so very, horribly wrong. Scott and Allison were probably already done and in bed by now, the lucky assholes.

“How much longer do you think it’s going to be?” Stiles asks Derek.

Derek glances at the watch on his wrist, clearly displeased by what he sees. “I don’t know.”

With a dejected sigh, Stiles leans back, his head turning to see Alfie making grabby hands towards him, unhappy whines coming out of his mouth. Stiles reaches out with one arm, his other resting uselessly at his side, having been hastily wrapped in the van, the bandages made into a poor excuse for a sling.

An _‘oof’_ escapes him as Alfie wobbles out of Derek’s lap and onto Stiles’, plopping down and almost falling back over his knees if Derek hadn’t grabbed him and helped him sit back up. Alfie simply giggles like it's a fun game and not a near death experience. 

Is this what having kids is like? Constantly worrying about them and frantically trying to keep them from accidentally killing themselves with their stupidity?

It’s _awful_.

“Why aren’t you asleep, lil guy?” Stiles asks, tiredly bouncing Alfie on his knee and reluctantly smiling as the toddler giggles at the movement, babbling incoherently. 

It would be adorable if they weren’t both covered in dried blood, although nobody in this room seems bothered by that fact.

The sound of Derek clearing his throat catches Stiles’ attention.

“You have blood on…” Derek trails off, his eyes focused on Stiles’ face. 

“Oh.” Stiles frowns, absently wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. 

Derek shakes his head, tentatively reaching out like he’s not sure his touch is welcome. When Stiles doesn’t move to stop him, Derek extends a claw on his thumb, his hand gently cupping Stiles’ chin as he scrapes at the dried blood by his mouth. 

Stiles stares at him, lips parted and feeling slightly off-kilter by the casualness of the action. Derek’s brows are scrunched in concentration, but he doesn’t seem disturbed by the blood at all, like he doesn’t see Stiles as a monster. The thought sends a surge of warmth through him.

Stiles wants to marry him.

Though Derek can hear it, and probably feel it too, he doesn’t mention the way Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest. But Stiles feels trapped, vividly remembering their time in the forest. 

He recalls the heat of Derek’s body pressed tightly against his, the way strong hands reverently cupped his face similar to now. He can practically feel the softness of Derek’s lips, which had contrasted the intensity and harshness of their kisses. He remembers heated red eyes that were so different from the kind, pale green ones staring at him now.

Stiles bites back a whine as Derek’s eyes flicker down to his neck, thumb no longer scraping off blood, but brushing softly against his jaw instead. Stiles’ heartbeat is as rapid as hummingbird wings, fluttering under Derek’s hand as it slides down to his neck, his eyes lidded. 

Stiles hasn’t had a chance to see himself since they left for their mission, but he knows Derek is focused on where he'd possessively sucked marks onto his skin. Stiles had begged him to, had egged him on, and he doesn’t regret it. Maybe he should, but he can’t find the strength within him. He wanted it then and he still wants it now, but Derek doesn’t feel the same.

And now he has to live with the knowledge of how right it feels to kiss Derek, of what it's like to pull him close and _touch_ the way he’s dreamt.

Cora told him that Derek was attracted to him, and Stiles hadn't believe it at first. He believes it now. The passion between them hadn’t been, and couldn’t be, faked. But Stiles is greedy and he wants more than a few rounds in bed, as mind-blowing as they would be.

To avoid the temptation, he'd decided to avoid Derek the best he could for the rest of eternity, or at least until Stiles’ love lessened. It was a shitty plan and would never have worked, but he had made peace with the idea of eventually giving up and moving on.

Then he experienced the pleasure in being looked at with desire, despite being at his most vulnerable. He experienced what it was like to be kissed until his knees were weak.

How is he supposed to stop loving Derek while knowing that his hands are powerful and dangerous, but tender when they caress him?

Derek has _ruined_ him. 

How can he move on now? Not that he was having much success before this, but at least he had a chance. He had _hope_.

He didn’t want to give Derek the opportunity to hurt him further, but the awful ache in his chest tells him that he’s only managed to make it worse. Who had he been kidding, thinking he had a chance to avoid being hurt again? 

Besides, it’s not like he has much heart left that hasn’t already been broken.

Stiles’ expression shudders closed, his exhale unsteady as he pulls away from Derek’s hands.

“Sorry,” Derek mutters.

Stiles offers him a weak smile, though it doesn’t seem to reassure either of them.

“Ow, shi—oot.” Stiles hisses in pain as Alfie climbs him, his tiny feet stepping on the raw skin around his wrists. 

Thankfully, his little hands go for Stiles’ good shoulder and not the one with multiple holes in it.

He recovered quickly from the whole ‘magically being set on fire’ thing, and his arm and shoulder is currently numb— which probably isn’t a good thing, in actuality— but the burn marks around his wrists from the shackles sting like hell as Alfie steps on them. 

Unfortunately, it'll take a few days for the sensitivity to go away. He knows that from experience.

Derek’s expression darkens with guilt and shame. Before he can apologize, Stiles silences him with a stern glare. He let the last one go, but he's tired of hearing those words.

“It was necessary,” Stiles says, leaving no room for argument.

If the others hadn’t subdued him, who knows what he could have done or who he could have hurt. A little pain for a few days is nothing compared to hating himself forever.

As Alfie attempts to perch on Stiles’ shoulder, Stiles becomes instantly aware of his pain dissipating. Wide-eyed, he gapes at where Derek’s touching the irritated skin on his wrists, the veins in Derek’s arm thick and black as he takes away the ache.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, whisper-soft, staring at Derek in wonder. He gulps and averts his gaze, sure that the adoration in his gaze must be obvious. 

But then, with panicked gasps and swears, they both reach out to catch Alfie as he loses interest in climbing and tries to topple off the couch instead. Derek grabs under his armpits and lowers him safely to the ground where Alfie shuffles, slow and unsteady, towards his siblings.

“That kid is going to give me a heart attack,” Stiles grumbles.

It’s no longer a question. He’s absolutely certain that this toddler has a death wish.

“You should see Deaton about your injuries,” Derek says.

“I will. Later.”

Which meant ‘tomorrow’. Or, technically, later today.

Stiles licks his dry lips, working himself up to ask the question he’s been wondering for the past few hours.

“Don’t you think I’m fucked up?” he asks, so quietly it can barely be considered a whisper. “I slaughtered a lot of people. And I did it happily.”

Derek’s gaze burns the side of his face, but Stiles can’t find the courage to meet it, shame swelling within him. Ashamed of what he’s done and what he is.

“No, you didn’t,” Derek says. 

Pleasure spreads through Stiles at the surety of his voice, the ease with which he disagrees. But _..._

“I was literally laughing as I tore out their intestines.”

“That’s just how you deal with trauma. You joke about things that hurt you, but you always smell like misery. Stiles, you’re not a monster,” Derek says. 

“You didn’t think that before,” Stiles says with more than a little bitterness, remembering the mission with Greenberg and the venomous words Derek had spat at him. 

“I’m s— I was wrong. You are what this place has turned us all into. Weapons. You, me, Allison, everyone here. We’re all the same. What you did is not on you,” Derek stated.

Stiles is stunned speechless, his face slack as his brain stutters to a halt.

Derek, apparently feeling talkative today, goes on, “Everyone is capable of losing control. Werewolves, witches, sirens, humans, were-zebras— _anyone_ can lose control. But some of us are more dangerous than others.”

There’s a lump in Stiles’ throat that makes breathing slightly more difficult than usual, but he manages to nod, accepting Derek’s words for what they truly are.

An actual, meaningful apology.

Stiles offers a real smile this time, small but sincere.

“Are you a witch?” Alice interrupts, standing at Stiles’ knees. 

Stiles’ entire body jolts in surprise.

He _despises_ parenthood.

“Holy fu—fanny packs, we need to put a bell on you,” he breathes, glowering at Derek when he snorts in amusement. “Don’t laugh at me, I know you heard her coming, you _—_ ugh. Censorship is hard.”

Derek’s lips pull up into an actual, real grin. It's better than Stiles had imagined: radiant and warm, and directed at him. 

He stops breathing.

He made Derek smile! He deserves an award to commemorate this momentous occasion.

“Well, are you?” Alice says impatiently.

Can’t he have one second to himself to bask in his achievement? Alice watches him, waiting. Apparently, he can’t.

Stiles blinks at her, having forgotten she asked him something. He isn’t cut out for this parenting thing.

“Yeah, I am,” Stiles answers.

“Cool. I watched a TV show with witches in it once,” Alice says, draping her forearms on top of his legs.

“Oh, did you?” Stiles asks, curious as to where she is going with this. 

“It was neat. They read palms and stuff.”

“Oh. You mean psychics?” 

“No, witches.” 

“I don’t think those were witches.”

“Can you read my palm?” Andrew yells out with excitement, hopping up from his spot on the floor. 

Oh, no.

“After me! I asked first!” Alice shouts back. 

Stiles bites back the urge to tell her that she didn’t actually ask first. Thankfully, he’s smart enough to know better than that.

Maybe he isn’t so bad at this. 

“But it’s your turn to go, Al,” Adam whines.

When Alice ignores him, Adam grunts and tips over, staring dejectedly up at the ceiling and releasing an exaggerated groan. He spreads out like a beached starfish, only moving when Alfie stumbles and faceplants onto his stomach.

Alice shoves her palm in Stiles’ face and, upon receiving zero assistance from Derek, Stiles reluctantly takes her hand and thinks of what he could say. 

What do kids want to hear about their futures? 

He sweats as he ponders possibilities:

_'In one year you’ll find out Santa isn’t real.'_

_'You’re going to have a shitty time during puberty.'_

_'You’re going to be trapped in this shithole for the rest of your life, like me.'_

None of those are good options.

“You’re going to live a long time and have a super awesome job that you love,” is what he settles on. Vague and positive. Perfect. 

“Do I get a dog?” Alice asks.

“Sure.” 

“What kind of dog?” 

“I don’t know. A golden retriever?” 

“But I don’t like dogs.” 

Stiles exhales harshly. Had he been this annoying as a kid?

“Oh, would you look at that. It seems I misread it. It says you’ll have a hamster named George,” Stiles says flatly. 

Alice nods, apparently deeming the answer acceptable. She skips back over to the game, though she pointedly makes sure to step on Adam’s foot as she does so. He snaps at her and grabs her ankle so she trips and hits the ground, letting out a piercing cry.

Stiles glances at Derek, who sighs and takes the hint to go and moderate the chaos. As he leaves the couch, Andrew comes forward, hand shyly extended towards Stiles.

Stiles takes his hand, pretending to concentrate. “You’re also going to live a long time and have lots of friends. You may or may not win the lottery.” 

Andrew’s expression is solemn, taking it seriously. The quiet question catches Stiles by surprise.

“Do I see my mom again?” 

Oh, _no_.

Stiles balks, stuttering out, “I’m not sure. I’m having trouble reading it. Because of… a headache.” 

“You can’t read it because of a headache?” Andrew asks dubiously.

“Magical exhaustion is a real thing, buddy. Don’t look at me with that judgement in your eyes. Sleep is very important, you’ll want to remember that.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, but doesn’t push. He goes back to the game, sitting as Alice and Adam’s spat ends. 

“You’ll thank me for that advice when you’re older!” Stiles calls out. He mentally sighs in relief at successfully dodging Andrew's difficult question. 

He sinks back into the couch cushions and another hand enters his view. Stiles squints up at Derek, lips pursed with judgement.

“What do you see in mine?” Derek asks, the edges of his mouth angled upwards. 

Stiles clamps down his grin, determined to hide how pleased the playful teasing makes him. 

“Or are you too tired?” 

Stiles huffs, but takes Derek’s hand, brushing his fingers lightly over the creases of his palm. He has the weird urge to kiss it, but suppresses it. Obviously. It’s nice though, his hand large and fingers thick, the skin magically still baby soft thanks to his supernatural healing.

“Well, I’m not a professional, but—”

“Clearly.”

Stiles shoots him a flat look and Derek smiles, _again_ , but obligingly goes quiet. 

“I see a long, happy, and fulfilling life. You have a beautiful house and a huge backyard, a boring, but good paying job, and a close-knit pack,” Stiles says, listing all the things he hopes for Derek’s future, silently asking the universe to make it happen.

“And what about love?” Derek murmurs.

Stiles’ head whips up, lips parted in shock at the unexpected question. Derek’s expression is carefully blank. He probably didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a normal question to ask a fake psychic, right?

With warm cheeks, Stiles pretends to seek the answer in Derek’s palm, taking advantage of the rare, and short, opportunity to touch him freely.

“Ah, yes. I see that too,” Stiles says. If he ever makes it to the Outside, perhaps he should consider this as a job. He’s pretty good at this bullshitting thing. “It’s a grand love. A love so great it defies the ages. They write books about it, which become bad made-for-TV movies. You both lose your dignity in the process, but rake in the cash…” 

Derek’s eyebrows slowly raise, creeping higher and higher as Stiles’ spiel continues.

“…Until you argue over whether or not to have a sequel made. Sadly, you divorce, unable to come to an agreement. But, the sequel gets made anyway and you become richer, using that money to buy more love. _Better_ love.”

“Are you saying I get divorced and resort to prostitutes for companionship?” Derek asks, incredulously.

“I’m only reading what your hands are showing me. I don’t write the future, Derek. I interpret it. It’s up to you to change what you don’t like,” Stiles says sagely.

“I guess I’ll have to change it then,” Derek says, voice soft and eyes dropping down to Stiles’ lips.

“I guess so,” Stiles says shakily, his tongue darting out to lick at his chapped lower lip.

Derek’s eyes trace the movement, pupils dilated when they flicker back up to meet his gaze.

“Or maybe I should skip love and go straight to the prostitutes,” Derek says, mercifully easing his hand out of Stiles’ grip and ending the moment. 

“Sounds like a smart decision.” Stiles nods at his wisdom, his stoic expression only lasting a moment before his lips twitch, belying his amusement.

He resolutely ignores the complicated feelings of both disappointment and relief.

“What’s a prostitute?” Alice pipes up from right. next. to. them.

“Holy mother of—” Stiles grits out through clenched teeth. “Can you please make some noise when you move?”

“What is a prostitute,” Alice repeats, slower this time as if she were the adult talking to a child and not vice versa.

Stiles’s eyes narrow at her sass. He’d learned quickly on the van ride over that her sickeningly sweet demeanor has a sour layer right below the surface. In a way, she kind of reminds him of Heather.

“It’s nothing important,” Derek says at the same time Stiles replies, “It’s your future job if you keep up with that attitude.”

Derek stares at him in horror and Alice squints, able to infer that it was an insult.

“It’s fine. I’ll ask Lydia,” Alice says nonchalantly. “And maybe I’ll tell her about the forest too.”

Stiles’ eye twitches. How pathetic are they to be blackmailed by an eight-year-old?

“This is your fault,” Stiles directs at Derek. And, to Alice, “I’m _appalled_ by your behavior. But I’m also proud. You are wiser than your years, young padawan. Name your price for your silence.”

Alice preens at the attention and hops up on the couch, sitting in between Stiles and Derek. They banter for a bit before Stiles eventually agrees to have the tattoos on his uninjured arm morph into unicorns and cupcakes for her amusement.

She’s hiccoughing with laughter as she prods at the tattoos with her little fingers until they run away or disappear, happiness shining in her eyes.

Of course, that’s when Lydia appears, stepping into the room looking abnormally frazzled.

“I’m so sorry, there was an emergency meeting,” she says breathlessly. 

Her eyes widen comically as she sees the four new guests, clearly not having been informed of the change in plans. She plasters on a fake smile and powers through the confusion.

“Hello. I’m Lydia, the director here. You guys will be staying with us for a while,” she warmly greets the kids.

The children glance nervously at Stiles and Derek, the both of them giving encouraging smiles. Stiles’ cheeks twitch at the phoniness of it, but he keeps it up until the door closes, leaving the two of them alone. 

The room is despairingly quiet.

Stiles’ smile drops as reality sets in. Is this the right thing for those kids? What if they hate it here, like him? What if they were better off in the Outside?

“You don’t want them here,” Derek says softly, catching onto Stiles’ distress.

“What other option did we have? This is a better than them being cold and alone in that forest,” Stiles says, though he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Derek or himself.

“It is,” Derek agrees. 

Stiles frowns, doubt niggling at him. 

Is it really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me [here](https://teenshmolf.tumblr.com) where you can chat with me, ask questions about TSiOB, etc.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I was STUNNED by the wonderful feedback on the last chapter, holy cow, guys! You MADE MY WEEK. Your comments inspire me so much and mean A LOT to me during this tough time. I'm hanging in there though <3
> 
>  
> 
> _Let me know your thoughts-- What was your favorite part of this chapter?_  
> 


	10. Fighting Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are a gift and I treasure every single one <3
> 
>  
> 
> ****CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Some horror/gore. If you thought Stiles' violence last chapter was too much, you probably won't like Walmart's second appearance here. If you'd like the option to skim/skip it, a character warns before the scene is described. Skip ahead from that point to “The heavy doors close behind him…”  A jokey description of Walmart’s episode will be given in end notes if that works better for you to read it that way.**

Stiles opens his eyes, expecting it to be mid-day, but it’s not. The digital clock by his bedside reads **6:05 AM** in blocky green letters. He groans, shoving his face deeper into his pillow. The last he remembers, it had been just after 3 AM. It hasn’t been a full three hours; why is he awake? 

He groggily rolls over, freezing at the yellow light from the hallway spilling into his room, Lydia’s figure silhouetted in his doorway. She switches the light on despite his squawk of protest.  Mild crankiness turns into indignation, his squinted eyes instantly zeroing-in on the ominous folder in her hands.

It’s six in the morning, what files could possibly be so important they can’t wait until later? 

“Look, I’ve had a really long day,” Stiles begins, tone less sharp than he'd hoped. 

He’s too exhausted to muster up enough anger to yell. He went straight to bed after the siren kids were led away to get settled in, determined to get some much-needed sleep. He had been set on recouping his energy, prioritizing sleep over letting Deaton treat his wounds. Risking infection had actually seemed like the _better_ option than staying awake any longer.

If he had known Lydia was going to interrupt his precious sleep after four hours, he wouldn’t have bothered.

He sits up and hisses in pain. The hot, tender skin and throbbing sensation in his forearm and shoulder tells him forgoing aid may have been a bad decision after all…

“So have I,” Lydia snipes, apparently equally grumpy. 

Her red hair is abnormally frizzy and falling out of the once perfectly styled bun, the skin under her eyes an unhealthy shade of purple. She looks as tired as he feels, though he knows that’s not possible. 

“You think I want to be here when I could be sleeping? I haven’t sat down in _eight_ _hours_. _”_

“You couldn’t find a chair anywhere in this building? Wow. How awful. I got _shot_ multiple times and left a nice snowy mountain looking like the Red Wedding happened there, so I don’t think you want to be comparing levels of exhaustion.”  


Lydia’s shoulders droop and the bed dips as she gracelessly plops down, forcing him to scooch over to accommodate her. 

“I know. Sorry. I’m stressed,” she mutters. “But I know you are too. It’s no excuse.”

“Maybe we should talk when both of us are less stressed and sleep deprived. I’m tired of being people’s emotional and physical punching bag.” Stiles flops onto his back and scowls up at his ceiling as if it were Natalie Martin. 

Instead of the director’s stony face, myriad stars and galaxies wink down at him, his ceiling a perfect rendition of the night sky. Claudia had cast a spell on it for his tenth birthday in an attempt to make him feel better about being trapped in this hellhole.  It hadn’t helped, though it’s pretty to look at.

“I never meant to make you feel like that. I’m...”

“Stop. apologizing. Say what you came here to say. The sooner we have this conversation, the sooner I can get some sleep,” Stiles says irritably.

Lydia shifts until her back touches the headboard and Stiles exhales sharply through his nose. He reluctantly mimics her position, knowing that her getting comfortable means this will be a serious, and potentially long, talk. 

“Heather ran away.”

Stiles is aware his expression is damningly blank, but he doesn’t care enough to fake surprise. Why waste energy pretending he didn’t know? Heather wouldn’t have left without informing him first, that’s basic sense.

“She was on a mission with Matt, Jackson, and Erica when she disappeared,” Lydia says.

“How?”

“They were in a fight and she cast a spell that created duplicates of herself; one of which took the van home in her stead.”

The slight tension coiled in his gut loosens in relief. Although he knew she planned on leaving, hearing that she had disappeared while on a mission with someone like Matt set off alarm bells in his head, the situation too similar to Claudia’s for his comfort. But cloning had been one of Heather’s favorite magic tricks, and hearing that she had used it before her escape calms his fears.

Stiles’ magic is offensive and thrives on chaos and destruction. Whether he likes it or not, spells that shred, maim, and hurt are his forte. Heather’s magic, however, is the opposite. Hers is defensive and works best when she’s using spells that create. If she can visualize something, she can make it appear and come to life.

“What’s interesting to me though, is that the drive back to base took three hours. I was under the impression that her illusions only last for a short period of time.” Lydia’s voice is professionally distant, but despite her dancing around the point, Stiles receives the message loud and clear.

Everyone knows cloning people and objects is Heather’s forte. The fact that the duplicates never last long is also common knowledge. Three hours is way beyond her capabilities.

“They typically last a half hour to an hour,” he confirms.

“This copy not only lasted the whole drive, it also morphed into a _black bird_ that took off once the doors opened,” Lydia says flatly, her hardened gaze settling on him accusingly.

Ah, so that’s why she’s here. 

Stiles fights back a smile. He had wondered where Walmart disappeared to yesterday morning. 

“That’s interesting,” Stiles says casually.

“I’m thinking it sounds an awful lot like Walmart.”

“It’s possible. I’ve always wondered what he gets up to when he’s not around.” 

“You didn’t think it was important to tell anyone he was missing?” Lydia finally snaps. “What if you needed him? What if you wanted to use your magic and he wasn’t there?”

The accusation that he would put his team in danger for a few minutes away from his familiar rankles. He grits his teeth against the insults he desperately wants to spit. He’s done nothing to deserve this constant doubt.

“He wasn’t missing. If I needed him, I could have easily summoned him,” Stiles grinds out. 

The folder crinkles loudly under Lydia’s tightening grip. 

“It doesn’t matter. That’s not the real issue here. What matters is that you _knew_ she was going to leave. She must’ve told you.” 

Stiles doesn’t deny it. The silence is confirmation enough.

Lydia scoffs, shaking her head as if she had any right to be disappointed in him. She’s the one constantly letting him down, not the other way around. Resentment burns hotly in Stiles’ veins and he can’t help but wonder what this made them. Because they certainly weren’t friends anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lydia has the gall to ask, her voice unreasonably hurt. 

Stiles snorts.  “Why would I? So you could stop her?” 

“So I could fix it!”

“You can’t fix this!” 

“Is it really that bad here?” Lydia asks, affronted.

“ _Yes_.”

She sucks in air through clenched teeth, as if wounded by his hatred of this place.

“It’s not supposed to be. It’s supposed to be a safe place, a _home.”_

“Yeah, well, maybe you should tell Natalie that,” Stiles snipes. “She never cared to make this place feel like a home. It’s been a prison from the start. And now where is she? Hiding from the people she’s forced to do her dirty work, I bet.”

The words are harsh and cruel, though they hold nothing but the honest truth. He’s not trying to hurt her, but he’s tired of sugar coating.

“Lydia?” he prompts, when she flinches at the mention of her mother.

“She wasn’t a good woman, I know that. And I’m trying to make things better, to fix her mistakes, but I don’t know how.” The words are thick with emotion, tumbling out of her in a rush. With a gasping breath, she stills, eyes wide as if she’s admitted something she’d kept secret for too long.

“Was?” he parrots softly, stuck on the tiny detail. 

Lydia’s eyes flutter shut. Tears trail tracks through her makeup, dripping from her chin and staining the folder’s surface.

“She’s dead. She died a little over a year ago,” she whispers, as if scared to voice it too loudly.

Stiles clasps his hands in his lap to hide the tremors. “Does anyone know?”

“Just Deaton and Harris.”

“Geez.” The back of Stiles’ head bumps against the firm headboard. 

No wonder Lydia’s been so stressed; she’s been trying to run the agency with the weight of this huge secret on her shoulders, having no one to burden with her questions, ideas, or fears.

He blinks at her, watching her break down next to him. Heavy sobs escape her throat, her whole body shaking with the force of them. It’s a heartbreaking sight, seeing someone as strong as her completely fall apart. 

She looks so much like she had the last time Stiles had witnessed a breakdown of hers. Which was…

A little over a year ago.

He reluctantly pulls her into his arms as she finally lets go of the pent-up emotions. She presses her tears into his shirt and his heart aches as she clings to him. It wasn’t long ago that Heather had done the same thing, breaking down on the day of their last ritual together.

Now Heather is gone and he’ll never get to hug her again, excitedly chat about new spells they had created or learned, nor will he ever get to watch her mature and see the adult she becomes.

His arms tighten around Lydia as he finds his own comfort in this moment. He wants to hate Lydia; after all, she’s to blame for everything that’s gone wrong in the past year.

Heather wouldn’t have left if Lydia had made this place better. Stiles wouldn’t have been shackled, like a criminal, if she hadn’t demanded it. He wouldn’t be stuck in this place if she allowed him the opportunity to leave.

But she’s trapped too, having lost herself in the struggle to keep the agency afloat after her mother’s death. Or maybe she was lost many years ago, when Natalie first brought her here.

Lydia had been forced into this life, like him. She never had a childhood or a choice in her future. At least Stiles had Claudia and Heather growing up, his own makeshift family and support. But who did Lydia have to turn to other than a narcissistic mother who wanted a personal assistant and not a child?

Who is ‘Lydia Martin’ really? Is there any part of her that is unique or independent of her mother’s influence? Or is she like a piece of clay, molded into a shape of someone else’s choosing? 

Stiles wants to hate her, but he can’t. He _pities_ her. They’re stuck in this cycle of both loving and resenting each other, being the only ones who truly understand what the other is going through.

It’s a while before she calms enough to pull herself out of his arms. Her face is splotchy and red, eyes swollen and hair hanging messily past her shoulders; vulnerable in a way he’s only had a glimpse of before.

She’s stunning.

Stiles says as much, and she laughs as she wipes at her eyes. It’s a short bark of laughter, but it’s real, her lips remaining curved upwards as stares back at him. 

“Thank you,” she says sincerely. “I know you’re mad at me, rightfully so, but I appreciate—”

“We’re practically family,” Stiles says. And, because he can’t help but want to ease some of the tension, he continues, “I mean, not like siblings. Heather’s my only sister. But maybe a distant cousin once removed. Or an estranged aunt that nobody invites to holiday parties.”

Lydia laughs again, the misery in her eyes slowly receding. He doesn’t want to dampen the mood further, but he has to ask.

“How did she die?”

“Dementia. Supposedly. It was quick. The symptoms started about two years ago, but it wasn’t obvious. She was a little forgetful and depressed, and it was a rapid decline from there. She became bedridden and…” 

Lydia’s crying again, but silently now, no longer overwhelmed by the grief of finally admitting to her loss. “She didn’t recognize me, in the last few months. She said such awful things.”

“Worse than normal?” Stiles absently mumbles, flushing at Lydia’s wince. “Sorry.”

Lydia shrugs, but he knows the words stung.

“Do you think she could've been poisoned?” Stiles hesitantly asks, not wanting to make her feel worse, but knowing it’s a possibility in their line of work.

Lydia nods. “I considered the possibility. Honestly, for a while I thought Deaton might have been slipping something extra into her medicine. I still think he might’ve. You know he despised her.”

She wipes her cheeks clean once more. The tears have stopped falling though there’s a bitter edge to her voice. “Then I realized, if Deaton did poison her, if _anyone_ did, what did it matter? She had no friends; everyone loathed her. Even those who were loyal to her disliked her. It would take me _years_ to go through the list of people with motives to hurt her and yet, she’ll still be dead. So what’s the point?” Lydia says tiredly. 

Stiles chews his lip, frustrated at how well he understands. 

He _knows_ Peter was involved in Claudia’s disappearance. Initially, he had searched tirelessly for proof, becoming unhealthily obsessed with it until everyone, including Heather, stopped talking to him.  It took months before he realized proof wouldn’t change anything. In his gut, he knew Peter was involved, but so what? He would never be punished for it. There were no police to contact, Natalie didn’t care about Claudia going missing, and there was no way for a kid like him to escape the agency and survive in the Outside without help.

Why did he need proof? Claudia was gone and he would never see her again, no matter what he did or who was ultimately responsible. Revenge or no revenge, he couldn’t bring her back. Obsessing over revenge would only drive him mad— like Natalie.

Lydia goes on, “And, as stupid as this sounds, I want to make her proud. To uphold her legacy here and do what she wanted with the agency.”

“Screw that,” Stiles says adamantly. Lydia startles at his vehemence. “Forget what Natalie wanted. What do _you_ want this place to be?”

“I want it to be a refuge. A real one,” Lydia says with sincerity.

“If you don’t like the way things are, then change it,” Stiles says, voice firm with resolve, speaking to himself as much as he is to her.

“I don’t know how to change it. It isn’t that simple. I don’t know what I’m doing,” Lydia hisses, clearly frustrated with her own ineptitude.

“Your mother raised you to do this job. You are the _only one_ who can possibly make a difference,” Stiles says.

“My mother taught me how to keep things running, not how to make drastic changes! Every time I try, my suggestions get shot down,” Lydia argues.

“By whom?” Stiles asks, disbelieving.

“We have investors. Shareholders. Board members. There’s a lot more to this than you know,” Lydia says.

“You’ll figure something out.”

Lydia glowers. “You think I don’t know that? I may not know how to fix this disaster, but I’m trying! It might take some time, but I _am_ trying.”

“Try harder,” Stiles demands, rising from the bed and beginning to pace. “You’re in charge now. You don’t get to make excuses anymore.”

“I’m not making excuses. I know what I’m responsible for, but…” she hesitates, gaze averted. “I miss her. I know she did terrible, unforgivable things, and she was an awful excuse for a human being, but she was my _mother_. And I loved her.” 

“You can love someone and not like what they do,” Stiles says, though his mouth twists sourly at the thought of anyone loving that wretched woman. “Even if she was a pile of shit. I get that. But that doesn’t—”

“So you can understand how difficult—”

“No, Lydia! I said I understand it, but that doesn’t _absolve_ you of anything. I’m done with your excuses!” Stiles snarls. “Have you looked into Matt since I told you I thought something was off about him?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Are you kidding me?!” Stiles shouts.   
  
Both of them jolt as sparks burst from his fingertips, bright and crackling violently in his outrage.

“Walmart’s supposed to keep your magic from acting up,” Lydia says warily, their conversation derailed by his sudden loss of control. 

As if summoned by his name, Walmart pops up in the corner of the room, eyeing the two of them with interest. Stiles exhales sharply in annoyance, but ignores his familiar to focus on Lydia instead.

“My magic isn’t acting up,” Stiles lies. “I have full control.”

“Clearly it is and you don’t.”

“Fine. Things are a little _off_ at the moment, but it’s fine. We’re working on it. It’ll be—”

“Fine?” Lydia finishes. Stiles scowls.  Her demeanor gentles with concern. “Is there something going on? He’s supposed to be your magical reservoir, only allowing you to siphon off what you can handle.”

“I created him. I know what his job is,” Stiles says drily.

“Does he?”

Stiles flails in frustration, gesturing wildly at his creepy familiar silently perched in the corner. “He’s done his job for eleven years!”

“Then what’s going on?” Lydia asks pleadingly, begging him to confide in her. “You completely lost control during your mission— don’t look at me like that, of course I know about it— and now your fingers are spitting out fireworks because of your anger! That’s not _normal_.”

Like a toddler upset by its parents fighting, Walmart attempts to end their shouting match.   
  
However, unlike a human child, he does so by releasing a blood-curdling scream.

Lydia and Stiles jump at the sound, snapping at him with matching looks of irritation on their faces.

“Go away!” Lydia snarls at the same time Stiles shouts, “Shut up!”

Even more surprising than the abrupt, horrifying cry, is that Walmart listens and disappears without another sound. Yelling at him is totally going to bite Stiles in the ass later, he can feel it, but he’s not in the mood to deal with Walmart’s specific brand of issues right now. 

Stiles passes a hand over his weary face, taking a moment to recoup in the ensuing silence.

“You can leave. We’re done here,” he says tiredly, his anger giving way to apathy. 

Lydia’s eyes dim at the dismissal, but she obligingly stands. She smooths out the wrinkles in her clothes and adjusts her hair, donning her professional disguise despite her ruined makeup.

“Don’t forget your folder,” Stiles says as she moves for the exit.

“They’re your next mission files,” she says over her shoulder.

“Seriously? I just got back,” Stiles argues.

“Sorry, but you’re the only mage we have left now. You don’t get the luxury of having a week between missions anymore.”

And, with those parting words hanging in the air, she leaves.

Stiles eyes the folder with disdain, petulantly shoving it off the other side of the bed. Is this what he has to look forward to now that he’s the agency’s only mage? Mission after mission with little-to-no rest in-between?

Just when he thinks things couldn’t be worse, the universe finds another way to screw him over.

o0o0o0o

Despite a great deal of effort, Stiles can’t fall back asleep after his discussion with Lydia. His arm burns, the skin tender to the touch, and he decides it’s time to seek out Deaton.

After all, late medical treatment is better than no treatment, right? 

Deaton doesn’t agree, since he repeatedly mumbles his disapproval while tending to Stiles’ injured forearm. His mood sours further when faced with the poorly wrapped shoulder wound and carelessly cauterized skin trapping bullet fragments under the skin.

Stiles sits on a counter in the infirmary’s lab, struggling to remain still as Deaton digs tiny bullet fragments out of his shoulder. It’s a long, revolting process, but Deaton had mercifully numbed the area before carving into it like Stiles is made of cheese.

“Have you thought about implementing a rewards card or something?” Stiles weakly jokes, dry heaving when he makes the mistake of glancing down at the growing puddle of blood.

The ridiculousness of the situation doesn’t skip his notice. He knows it’s pathetic that he has no problem with a bloody massacre or siren children eating severed limbs, but is squeamish over his own injuries, no matter how minor.

“Or maybe a punch card. For every five visits, you win a prize.”

Deaton removes the last metal shard, dropping it into a dish with the others. He briefly steps away to grab a healing salve. Stiles shivers, his bare torso leaving him exposed in the air-conditioned lab.

“Your reward is not dying from infected wounds,” Deaton says, scooping the cream onto his fingers and smearing it over the abused flesh. 

Stiles briefly entertains the possibility that the salve might be poisoned, that Deaton might be much more dangerous than he lets on. What if he had killed Natalie? Would he have stopped with her or would he hope to bring the whole organization down? It wouldn’t take much, the agency is barely staying afloat as it is. And the best way to cause them the most harm would be through disarming their mages.

The more he considers it, the more his suspicion grows. Deaton may be limited to only a few rooms, but he has access to everyone in the building. He could easily knock someone out, use their fingerprints or steal their keys, and enter secure rooms to tamper with equipment.

Important equipment like security cameras and _CommUnits_.

It would've been so simple for him to frame Stiles to take Lydia's suspicion off himself.

“I was thinking more along the lines of DVDs, TV box sets, or games,” Stiles says, watching as Deaton reaches for a roll of bandages. 

Until he decides what to do about this newfound suspicion, he’s going to have to play dumb. But where does he go from here? He can’t tell Lydia, she’ll brush him off, like she did with his accusations of Matt. He’ll have to figure this out by himself. He can’t drag Scott into this either; he’s too wrapped up in Allison and would spill the beans. Not that Stiles doesn’t trust Allison, but the fewer people who know about his hunch, the better.

Perhaps Heather had been right. Maybe witches didn’t have friends after all.

“Or you could focus your energy on _not_ coming in here as often,” Deaton says unhelpfully.

“Wow, why didn’t I think of that? You truly are a genius, Doc,” Stiles deadpans, holding out his arm so Deaton can wrap the bandages more easily. 

“You might also consider not letting others use you for target practice. That would be a good place to start.”

“That sounds awfully judgmental.” 

“Good. It should.” 

Deaton finishes wrapping and steps back, giving Stiles room to hop down from his perch on the counter. He reaches for his shirt, trying his best to look innocent when he spots Deaton's look of disapproval.

“Let the salve work undisturbed for at least ten minutes,” Deaton instructs, patient despite having said that same thing at least a hundred times. Or maybe he isn’t that patient after all. Perhaps everything about him is a facade, carefully constructed to make him seem unassuming.

With an exaggerated groan, Stiles heads towards one of the infirmary rooms, opening the door and pausing. The sight of a stranger in the room as him instantly tugging his shirt on, Deaton’s rules be damned. The ten-minute wait is more of a suggestion and, more importantly, nobody should have to face the gnarly sight of his bare torso.

A woman, who appears to be in her early thirties, sits on one of the thin beds, her attention absorbed by the TV on the wall. Her skin is tan and black hair is braided into hundreds of long, thin braids that stop at her waist, red and teal beads attached to some of the strands.

She’s decorated with colorful beaded jewelry. Two strings of teal beads wrap around her head like a crown. Her clothes aren’t the regulated uniform either. She’s dressed in a long, modest dress with vibrant colors. The outfit obviously made from a thicker, wool-like fabric.

Stiles eyes her with intrigue, having no idea who she is, where she’s from, or how she got here; which is highly unusual for him, since he prides himself on being one of the nosiest agents in the building.

The stranger seems to finally notice his presence, her dark brown eyes fixating on him. 

“You look a lot less burnt than I expected,” she says, a slight accent to her words that he doesn’t recognize.

Stiles blinks at her as the meaning behind her words becomes clear. “Yeti?” 

He hops up on the empty bed beside her, his interest immediately piqued by the yeti woman.  She nods and he clicks his tongue, honestly surprised.

“You don’t look like I expected,” he says, leaning forward to get a closer look at her jewelry. They looked handmade and unlike any adornments he’s seen before.

“What did you expect?” she asks, leaning back to create more space between them.

“Someone hairier,” he quips.

“Ah,” is the only response he receives, though she seems amused. Possibly. He’s not certain, since she isn’t actually smiling. Or looking at him.

“Where are you from?” It’s not often that new shifters were brought back here, let alone shifters from outside the country.

“Tibet.” 

Stiles whistles, crossing his legs and getting comfortable. “How did you end up here?”

The woman looks at him, distinctly unimpressed.

“Right. Hunters. Dumb question,” Stiles says sheepishly.

The door swishes open, Deaton’s head peeking into the room.

“Ah, Stiles. I see you’ve found our guest, Dawa. Would you mind showing her around the agency? I’m a little rusty at giving tours,” Deaton says.

“Sure,” Stiles says easily. He straightens, perking up as an idea pops into his head. “Wait! Do you happen to have a building map? I’m terrible with directions. And giving tours. Also, are there actually places other than the lounge, cafeteria, and here?”

Deaton’s eyebrows raise in silent judgement, but he thankfully says nothing as he leaves. Stiles bites back a cheer when Deaton returns with a building map. 

“Sweet, thanks.” Stiles folds it and tucks it into his jacket pocket for later. 

 

He starts the tour with the gym, which is closest to the infirmary, then the lounge, briefing room, and training halls. He pretends to scan the map for help as he ponders his next move. There is one room that might have the information he wants, but it’s also the one room he doesn’t want to enter.

What would he do if he found proof that Deaton, or Matt, was the mole? If he is right in his assumptions, he might have a target on his back as the last mage. Would Lydia take him seriously then? Would she have any idea how to handle the situation?

He shoves the map in his pocket, scowling as he realizes he should have focused on finding the mole from the start. But he had been distracted by Heather, Derek, and the suspension— 

Which now makes complete sense. Perhaps this hadn't been about redirecting Lydia's suspicion at all. What if he'd been framed so that he'd be too busy to focus on finding the mole?  How did he not see it sooner?

“You all live here? Studying in these cramped rooms and never leaving this building?” Dawa asks, frowning as she peered through the windows of the rooms in the empty hallway.

Stiles scratches at the back of his neck. “We have an outdoor exercise area and cemetery. And most people can leave.” Most.

“This seems claustrophobic,” Dawa says carefully, as though not to offend.

“It’s not ideal,” Stiles agrees, not expanding further because it wouldn’t be fair to unload all of his frustrations on a stranger.

“You cannot leave though. Is it because you are prone to losing control?” Dawa asks, not unkindly. He can tell she doesn’t mean to be rude, but the question rubs him the wrong way anyway.

“What happened in the field wasn’t usual. for me.”  


Dawa hums. After a moment of silence passes, she quietly notes, “Your eyes turn black. Like a demon’s.” Her tone gives away nothing. He doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be an observation or condemnation. Or both.

“And?” Stiles says peevishly, waiting for the inevitable judgement.

“Many creatures have sulphur in their veins,” she gently states, calm and void of any disgust. “Darkness in one’s eyes speaks nothing of what is in the heart. The hunters have no demon blood in their veins, but the devil in their hearts.”

Stiles stands there, awkwardly at a loss, unsure of how to respond.

“Uh, thank you?” He cringes at his own awkwardness and tries to recover by quickly changing the topic. “Want to see the cafeteria?”

Dawa nods.

“How did you end up with the hunters?” Stiles asks, hoping to focus on anything other than the sense of impending doom in the back of his mind as they walk through the winding hallways.

“They found us in the mountains back home. They captured my husbands and me.”

“Husbands?”

“Yes. I have not seen them in a long time. Not since we were separated for testing,” Dawa says, missing the point. But polyandry isn’t that important anyway, not when compared to the rest of her statement.

“Testing?” Stiles echoes with hesitation, not wanting to pry or cause her pain. 

Dawa’s eyes flash red, but there’s no anger in them. “I do not remember what they did to me, but I was not a clan leader— an _alpha_ — before this. They made me this way and trapped me in my full shift, so that I was unable to return to human.” Her eyes dim in color and emotion. “It was a place of nightmares.”

A shudder runs up Stiles’ spine and his steps falter, remembering similar words being uttered by Cora, her own eyes dulled from the experience.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” Stiles says, wishing he could offer her more than useless words. But he can’t revive her husbands or give back the time she lost in captivity.

Her fingers curl over the edges of her long sleeves, rubbing absently at the thick material. “Do not feel sorry for me. I am alright now, though I worry for my children.”

“Children?”

Dawa’s eyes brighten a little, a wistful twist to her lips. “My beautiful babies: Pema, Sonam, Jampa, and Choden.”

Stiles gapes, horrified by the possibility that they might still be at the hunter’s facility. “Are they—”

“No.” Dawa shakes her head minutely. “At least, not to my knowledge. But that is the problem. I do not know where they are or if they know what happened to me. My husbands and I were on our way home when we were taken. What have they thought of us all these years? Were we presumed dead? Or did they resent us for abandoning them?”

Dawa’s voice wavers and Stiles feels unmoored by her words. Years? They had been there for _years_? The thought fills him with dread, but also… hope. What if Claudia had also been kidnapped by the hunters? What if she’s still alive, alone and worried about Heather and him, concerned about leaving behind her children, like Dawa?

Thoughts and possibilities whir loudly in his head, leaving him lightheaded.

Dawa tilts her palms upwards and staring down at them with a thoughtful look. “I worry about them, and yet, I want to go back.”

“Go back where?” 

“To the hunters.” Dawa’s eyes are alight with a hunger he knows all too well. “To put an end to them.”

“Sorry if I sound ignorant, but aren’t Tibetans typically pacifists?” Stiles asks, confused, but without judgement.

Dawa smiles and Stiles gawks, a familiar pang of longing flooding through him. She reminds him so much of his mother: beautiful, refined, and patient, but also terrifying.

“‘Eastern Pacifism’ is a Western fantasy. Buddhism has a long history of warriors and bloodshed. Sometimes, to act compassionately, you must kill.” The fingernails on her hands become sharp, black talons to emphasize her point. 

“No more children should have to grow up without their parents. No more innocent lives should be ruined for the sake of experimentation. They tortured me for years,” Dawa says venomously. “And now I want to show them what a real nightmare looks like.”

Stiles licks at his dry lips, trying to keep his face expressionless. Hope and eagerness flood through him at the thought of revenge, of fighting back.

“There were many prisoners there. Supernaturals young and old. I want to free them,” Dawa says.

“Do you remember how to get there?” Stiles rasps, throat dry from the mixture of nerves and excitement.

“Yetis have an impeccable sense of direction and navigation. It is how we find our way back home, even in the worst of snow storms.” There's a vicious slant to her lips. “I have a feeling it will not be hard to find.”

“Let me help you,” Stiles says breathlessly.

Dawa laughs, bright and threatening at the same time.

“Boy, I have seen what you can do. I would let you lead the way.”

They slow down as they approach the cafeteria. The doors are closed, which isn’t unusual. Scott standing guard in front of them, however, is. He sees Stiles and Dawa coming, his posture straightens as his expression contorts with apprehension.

“You don’t wanna go in there, man,” Scott says gravely, his hands grabbing at Stiles’ jacket when he tries to pass him. “Stop. I’m serious.”

“Is it Walmart?” Stiles asks, but he already knows it is. What else would it be?

“Trust me, okay? They’re going to clean it soon.”

“He’s only doing it so I’ll see. Let me in,” Stiles says with more calm than he feels, pushing against Scott’s fists. Scott’s forehead scrunches, conflicted. 

“He’ll keep doing it until I see.”

He’s not sure if that’s true, actually. This is completely new to him. Walmart’s never created a scene without him there to witness it. But, it’s become increasingly clear over the past few weeks, that Walmart is no longer abiding by the unspoken rules of their messed up game.

Scott’s hands unclench, releasing Stiles’ jacket from his grip and allowing him to pass. Scott watches him with hunched shoulders, defeat etched in his features.

Walmart has been a staple in Stiles’ life for the past eleven years, during which time he’s created some incredibly disturbing visuals, almost all of them containing various levels of gruesome self-mutilation, immolation, suicide, and murder. 

Many episodes were upsetting, while, other times, they were simply ridiculous and amusing in a dark, gallows-humor kind of way. 

But this…

This isn’t funny.

It might be the worst thing Walmart has ever done.

The cafeteria is eerily silent, the spacious room vacant except for Stiles, Scott, and Dawa. Unlike his usual tactic of morphing into a single humanoid figure, this scene takes up the entirety of the space.

Stiles’ shoes slide across the slick floor and Scott’s hands jolt out to steady him. His stomach rolls at the blood staining his white sneakers. It isn’t a patch of blood that he’s slipped in. The entire cafeteria floor is coated in a layer of tacky, still-fresh blood. The smell of iron, of _blood_ , is so thick it clogs his human nose. He can only imagine how intense the smell is for Scott and Dawa.  
  
Chairs and tables are strewn about and tipped over, the result of people scrambling for the exits when Walmart’s episode began. Stiles doesn't blame them. He wants to bolt too.

A message adorns the white walls, letters painted in dried blood. It's a tacky move, like something out of a campy horror movie, which is no surprise. Walmart always did have a passion for the classics.  Normally, Stiles would find the humor in it and roll his eyes, scoffing at the ridiculousness. 

Not this time.

**‘EVERYONE YOU LOVE WILL DIE’** it reads. 

It’s stupid and childish on its own, but not when its displayed next to the centerpiece of the room.

The main feature.

The highlight of the entire artwork.

Walmart’s pièce de résistance.

It steals the breath from his lungs.

There are five perfect recreations, their bodies hanging lifelessly from the ceiling in the middle of the room: Laura, Heather, Scott, Allison, and Derek; all of whom are clearly deceased, their eyes wide and bodies deathly pale.   
  
Their torsos and legs are caked with blood, their stomachs torn open from what appears to be deep, vicious claw marks. Parts of their innards are left spilling out, but the rest of the entrails are wrapped securely around their necks as they dangle from the ceiling.

Stiles clenches his teeth and fights against the intense urge to vomit.

“It’s fake. None of it’s real,” Scott murmurs, reaching out to comfort him. Stiles bats his hand away and stiffly leaves the room, not running or giving Walmart the satisfaction of seeing him upset. 

The heavy doors close behind him and he shoves his way into the nearest restroom down the hallway.His fingers are white, clutching the ceramic sink intensely, the cool surface a welcome feeling against his clammy palms. His breaths turn to wheezes as he finally breaks down now that he’s alone. The mirror in front of him reflects his unkempt hair, sweat-damp skin, and a wild look in his eyes. He sees the bodies of his friends hanging in the background and clenches his eyes shut, dipping his head low and blindly turning the faucet to full blast.

Cold water splashing against his face is a welcome relief, but isn’t enough. Nothing can chase the images away, because this is beyond anything Walmart has done before. At his worst, he had never been this cruel. 

This is vastly different from their norm and that, more than anything, terrifies Stiles the most.

His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths and he shakily smacks into the wall, his back sliding down it until he hits the ground.

He can’t escape from the fear that Walmart isn't messing with him. Maybe he is warning him. He had acted up before Claudia’s disappearance, having an increasing number of episodes, many of which featured her violent death. And he had spiraled, worsening further, before Laura was killed.

Was this his final warning? Before all of Stiles’ friends die? Heather was there and Walmart had featured her before in an episode. Did that mean…? Was she…?

Stiles’ hands press firmly against his eyes until he sees nothing but darkness and multi-colored dots of static. It’s not until a strong force pries his hands from his face and Stiles takes in a ragged breath that he notices Scott’s presence the bathroom.

“Scott,” Stiles says brokenly, somehow managing to speak through his panic. Scott shushes him gently and moves so that Stiles’ is sitting between his legs, his back pressed against Scott’s front. 

Scott’s hands rub soothingly down Stiles’ arms as he gently rocks them both, comforting him like Stiles had done for Lydia a few hours ago.

“None of it was real,” Scott says, repeating it over and over again until Stiles’ breathing slows down and his panic subsides. 

He knows it wasn’t real, but that doesn’t mean that the message behind it wasn’t.

“What if he’s trying to warn us?” Stiles asks, voice ragged. 

“Then we’ll find a way to stop it from happening,” Scott replies, as if it’s that simple, as if he’s not concerned about seeing himself and Allison gruesomely murdered and put on display.

Stiles shakes his head, gathering his courage to confess the thought that’s been loudly going through his head since he stepped foot in the cafeteria.

“What if he’s trying to warn us about me? What if _I’m_ what’s going to be the death of you?” Stiles whispers, fear squeezing around his heart and making the words difficult to utter. What if, by voicing it aloud, it sets the prediction in motion?

“You’re analyzing this too much. It’s probably much simpler than that.” Scott has always been stubborn and obtuse, but this crosses the line into ‘painfully naive’.

“I wasn’t up there with you guys.” 

“Yeah, because Walmart has to keep you alive. It’s his job.” 

“I’ve been dead in his visions before. Many, _many_ times.” 

“Exactly! You’ve been killed in Walmart’s visions countless times and you’re fine. What makes this one different?” 

“It _feels_ different! So, maybe, not all of his episodes are literal or predictions, but I think this one _is_.”

“Stiles…"

“He removed the intestines from the bodies like I did to those hunters!” Stiles’ voice breaks as he yells and he pushes away from Scott, shifting until there’s a few feet of space between them. 

Scott hesitates and it’s clear he’s worried too, a spark of fear in his eyes, though he’s trying to hide it. For Stiles’ sake.

“Maybe he thought it was cool?” Scott tries to joke. 

“Scott!” 

Scott’s eyes flash with determination, all hesitation dissipating instantly. “Okay, fine. Let’s say he is warning us about you. Even so, we’ll stop it from happening, okay? Whatever it is, we will stop it. Everything will be _fine_.”

“Sure. Alright.”

Stiles sags, leaning his weight against the wall behind him, not finding any comfort in his best friend’s words.

He has a feeling it won’t be as easy as Scott, the eternal optimist, makes it out to be.

o0o0o0o

Stiles is on his way back to his room, mindlessly ambling through the myriad of hallways he’s ventured through thousands of times before. He could probably find his way back to his dorm, from anywhere in the building, with his eyes shut.

Which is why it’s such a surprise when he stops in front of a door and realizes it isn’t his own. He closes his eyes as they start to burn with longing. He’s been here so many times before, most often after returning from difficult missions, when he sought out comfort and quiet understanding from his closest friend.

Stiles reaches out, blindly typing the passcode in with practiced ease, having memorized it a long time ago. The door slides open and he steps into Laura’s room, finally opening his eyes and immediately feeling overwhelmed by it. 

It hasn’t changed at all since the last time he was here. Everything is _exactly_ the same. 

The room appears perfectly untouched since Laura’s death, not a piece of clothing or hanging picture frame out of place. He brushes his fingers against the softness of the plush comforter and is met with the scent of her favorite cherry perfume, the one Derek used to always complain was too strong, but Laura adored it. Or maybe she loved it _because_ it pissed off Derek so much.

He can practically hear her laughter from the time she told him about sneaking into Derek’s room while he was away on a mission. She’d spritzed a few pieces of paper with the perfume, hiding them in various places around his room, including the air vent. It had driven him crazy when he’d returned to base, tearing apart his room in order to find the last of the torn pieces of paper.

She loved pulling pranks like that.

Stiles’ chin wobbles and he blinks rapidly as his vision blurs with tears. He presses a shaking hand against his mouth to stifle a sob.

It hurts so much, like a black hole in his chest, a vital piece of himself missing. 

He wanders around the room, soaking it all in as he lets go and allows the tears to fall. The walls and ceiling are a beautiful robin’s egg blue, much to Lydia’s chagrin. Natalie had always discouraged the personalization of the rooms, saying that it wasn’t good to make the rooms ‘too homey’. 

_“Just in case,”_ Natalie would say, her green eyes as shrewd and cold as her tone. _Just in case_ an agent died and left behind a room so loved and filled with personality that no one felt comfortable taking it over.

Stiles hadn’t understood Natalie’s reasoning at the time, but now, perhaps he could see why she had been so adamant about it. This room will forever be left vacant, since no agent wants to live in someone else’s space.

He trails his fingers over the many photographs taped to the wall by her desk. There’s only one photo from before the fire and it’s slightly burnt around the edges, but still in remarkably good condition considering. It must be the last picture taken of the Hale family together, each of them grinning cheesily at the camera, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that would befall them in a short time. 

He moves on to the other photos, many of which are candids of Derek around the agency, a handful of them taken in the Outside. Stiles lingers on those ones, stopping to touch one where Derek’s eyes are closed, head thrown back and mouth split with laughter. His shoulders are free of tension, he’s completely at ease and open with his happiness. Laura must have rushed to pull out her camera and capture one of the rare moments of him laughing freely. She’d always insisted that Derek had an amazing laugh, but Stiles never believed her.

_“I don’t think he can laugh, Laur. He huffs and that’s it. I could trip and smash my face in front of him and he’d only offer up a quiet burst of slightly-amused-sounding air,” Stiles told her, shoving curly fries in his mouth as they sat in a stuffy van._

_He offered the crumpled fast food bag towards her and she caved, leaning in and pulling out a handful._

_Laura had rolled her eyes and called him an idiot, saying, “You’ll hear it one day and you’ll see how wrong you are,” before tossing a fry in the air and leaning back to catch it with her mouth._

The Derek in the picture looks almost exactly like now, only a little more clean shaven. Stiles’ heart lurches painfully, sure that the photograph must have been taken within the last year.

He knows now that she was wrong. He’ll never get to hear that laugh. The thought leaves him oddly bereft and he withdraws his hand.

It’s a sense of loss that cuts so deep, as if he’s not only mourning losing Laura, but also the hopes he’d had for the future, the happy endings he’d imagined. All of it ended with her death.

Or had those dreams ended with Claudia? 

Or, perhaps, before then. Maybe he was doomed the moment he arrived on the doorstep of a vengeful woman’s sad excuse for a refuge-turned-secret-agency. 

He skips the rest of the photos, plopping down on her bed instead. He shoves his nose against a pillow, calm seeping into his bones and relaxing his muscles as the scent of cherries envelopes him.

For the first time in months, he feels safe. It’s like he’s in a stasis, brought back to a time where he soaks in the comfort of Laura’s room, waiting for her to return from the cafeteria with armfuls of snacks.

It’s probably not healthy, thinking this way, pretending she isn’t dead, but it eases the tightness in his chest and gives him reprieve from the crushing guilt. Laura would have mocked him mercilessly for wallowing in his self-pity like this. 

If she were here, she’d tell him to get up and fight back. Like he told Lydia, the time for excuses is over. If he’s tired of being everyone’s punching bag, he needs to _change_ that.

He has the map of the building, he can take that first step. No more excuses, right?

His posture straightens with resolve and he moves towards the door, only to stumble backwards as it unexpectedly swings open.

Derek’s forehead puckers as he’s faced with Stiles and the crumpled sheets on his sister’s bed. Without a second thought, Stiles wills himself invisible, warmth spreading across his skin as his magic grants his wish.  But, to his bewilderment, Derek flatly stares at him, distinctly unimpressed. His eyes remain steady on Stiles’, as if he can sense that Stiles is still in the room, standing before him. But that doesn’t make sense. Every time Stiles has magically vanished himself, using a spell his mother had taught him to trick others into thinking he’d teleported away, Derek had fallen for it. 

“I know you’re here,” Derek deadpans.

Stiles examines his burning palms, confounded. Had he messed up the spell somehow?

“Erica told me you can’t actually teleport,” Derek offers in explanation. That traitorous bitch.

Stiles sighs and waves a hand, skin cooling as the spell fades away.

“Oh, hey, Derek. Totally didn’t see you there,” Stiles says awkwardly. He rubs at his cheeks to hide the evidence of his tears, which only manages to draw more attention to them. 

“I thought you were done avoiding me.”  
  
“Old habits die hard,” Stiles jokes. It falls flat. “Um, so, what’re you doing here?”

“I think I should be the one asking that,” Derek says. “This is my sister’s room.”

Stiles winces and mentally berates himself. Of course Derek comes here, wanting to take comfort in Laura’s scent, the familiar smell of his family. And here Stiles is, ruining that too, covering the scent of her on the sheets and replacing it with his own.

“I can go,” Stiles blurts, stepping around Derek, only for him to shift and block the exit.

“It’s fine,” Derek says, but his arms cross his chest defensively. 

Stiles squints at the conflicting signals.

“What’s fine? Me leaving or me being here?”

“You being here. It’s fine.”

“But you’re here.”

“What.” Derek’s forehead scrunches further in bewilderment. Stiles doesn’t blame him for being confused, he feels lost too.

“I’m not sure you and me being in the same room together is a good idea.” Stiles eyes the exit. It’s so close, yet so far. Derek’s muscular mass is the only obstacle between him and freedom. Or, at least, the hallway.

“Why not,” Derek says, voice pitched low. Stiles’ eyes snap to his, surprised to find amusement there.

He swallows the bile rising in his throat as he recalls Derek’s wide, unseeing gaze, slackened expression, and pale skin as he hung from the cafeteria ceiling.

“You hate me,” Stiles says weakly.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Fine. You greatly dislike me.”

“That’s also not true.”

Stiles swallows for an entirely different reason. His stomach flutters with nerves as he shuffles his feet, not sure how to handle the situation.

He doesn’t know where they stand now that he’s given up on avoiding Derek, since it wasn’t making a difference in his feelings, but he’s certain that the unspoken truce between them is fragile. Their last conversation in the lounge had been pleasant and the last thing he wants to do is ruin this tentative peace. 

“Cora said something along those lines, but I don’t buy it. You definitely dislike me.” 

“I haven’t tried to kill you in two weeks,” Derek says, sounding almost… playful?

“What a record. I’m so impressed,” Stiles deadpans. “Obviously that makes us the best of friends now.”

“Obviously.”

“Look, I have stuff to do, so, if you don’t mind—”

“What stuff?”

“It’s top secret,” Stiles says impatiently, shoving his way past Derek, only to be pushed back by a single _finger_ pressed to his sternum. 

Derek grins as Stiles stumbles backwards. Though he knows Derek has superhuman strength on his side, his cheeks still warm in embarrassment at how easily his escape had been thwarted. He ignores his stinging pride and maintains his glare, hoping to find a weakness he can exploit.

He finds none. Derek is a thick, solid mass of well-defined muscles.

“We have a truce,” Stiles tries instead. He may not be able to physically make it past Derek, but maybe he can talk his way out of here.

“What truce?” Derek asks with raised brows.

“The unspoken one!”

“Hmm. Never heard of it,” Derek says drily.

“Did you just— was that a joke?” Stiles sputters. “Yesterday, you complimented me. Now you’re cracking dad jokes. You never joke around with me. Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?” 

His heart doesn’t skip at Derek’s responding smile, it _doesn’t_. It’s heartburn. Or gas. In his chest. That’s totally a thing that happens to people.

Not that it matters anyway. Now’s not the time to banter with Derek, it’s time to start fighting back, taking initiative, and whatever other motivational garbage Laura would say.

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Can I go?” Stiles says snappishly, pushing down the pang of guilt when Derek’s smile drops.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“I told you, it’s top secret stuff.”

“Did you forget I can hear you lie?” Derek asks slowly.

Yes. “No,” Stiles lies.

Derek’s expression is pained, as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or frown at Stiles’ antics. In the end, he settles on frowning. Shocker.

“We’re partners for the foreseeable future, I’ve accepted that. I apologized and I meant it. We can make this work, but not if we don’t trust each other. How can I get you to trust me again?” Derek asks, voice surprisingly quiet.

“I do trust you,” Stiles says. They both grimace when his heartbeat skips on the lie. Awkward. “Can we pretend you aren’t a walking lie detector?”

“I’m not an idiot, Stiles. I know I’m going to have to earn your trust back. But you have to be willing to give me that chance,” Derek says.

“Tell you what, you save my life a few more times while we’re on missions, buy me some plums, and maybe steal me a cookie dough ice cream from the cafeteria, and I’ll call us even. Trust regained and balance restored in the universe. Deal?” Stiles says, rocking back and forth on his heels, anxiously waiting for Derek to accept the easy out and _get out of his way_.

Except Derek doesn’t agree.

Stiles’ movement halts, eyes going wide at the unexpected, “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Stiles asks, dumbfounded.

“Here’s my counter offer: you tell me what you’re doing and I help you,” Derek says.

“Not a good idea,” Stiles says quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t!”

“That’s not an answer. Why. Not?” Derek asks, stepping intimidatingly closer. Stiles retreats, stepping backwards with every step Derek takes forward. It doesn’t take long before Stiles’ back hits a wall, leaving him with no escape as Derek further invades his space.

It’s uncomfortably familiar and Stiles flushes at the memory of Derek pressed against him, sucking marks onto his neck as Stiles breathed words of encouragement and tugged him closer. Derek seems to be remembering the same thing, his eyes dropping down to where he left his mark on Stiles’ neck.

Slowly, Derek’s eyes drag upwards, his light green irises are nearly swallowed completely by the pupil.

“I’m breaking into the records room!” Stiles exclaims. Derek winces at the volume.

“You’re _what?!”_ he asks, incredulous.

“I have a hunch, okay? I'm trusting my gut, and my gut says something bad is going to happen. But nobody will take me seriously without proof,” Stiles says. “So I’m getting it.”

“What do you mean something bad is going to happen?” Derek questions.

“I'm not sure. _Yet_. Basically, I think Walmart’s warning me. He might be psychic and it's possible that we're all in danger,” Stiles says, though he leaves out the fact that _he_ might be the danger in this scenario. But that's an issue for future-Stiles to worry about. Present-Stiles has other priorities. “The mole is our biggest threat right now. They’re giving away all of our intel, putting all of us at risk. Who knows what they’re planning next. I need to stop them and my gut is telling me it’s all linked to this person.”

“So you’re breaking into the records room,” Derek says tonelessly, completely _missing the point_.

“I am.”

Derek steps to the side, clearing the path to the exit. Stiles nearly sighs in relief. He offers a quick “thanks” instead and darts for the door. However, as he makes his way down the hallway and rounds the first corner, he becomes acutely aware that something’s not quite right.

“What are you doing.” Stiles’ narrow eyes hone-in on Derek, who stands a few feet behind, looking suspiciously innocent.

“Breaking into the records room,” Derek says easily.

“What? Why—” Stiles’ teeth clack together when he abruptly shuts his mouth, silenced by Derek’s expression.

“I didn’t believe you about Laura,” Derek says, his eyes alight with determination. “I won’t make that mistake again. Whatever your hunch is, I believe you.”

Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest. He tries and fails to fight back a smile.

“Okay, then. I’ll let you help. On one condition.”

“Anything,” Derek says, his face blank. He _has to_  be doing this shit on purpose. 

Stiles bites back a groan, wanting so badly to make an inappropriate joke, but he won’t.

Because he’s a mature adult. He’s focused. On a secret mission. Professional.

With that in mind, he blurts, “I actually can’t access the records room. According to the building map, it’s in the basement and is made entirely of iron, so I can’t magically open it. I have no clue how I’m going to get in there. I was thinking of using one of the grenades from the equipment room, but I’m not sure that will be as subtle as I’m hoping for. Unless…”

“I can get us in,” Derek says, mercifully ending Stiles’ rambling.

“Oh. Cool. How exactly? Are you going to use your werewolf strength to punch your way through? Because, let me tell you, I thought of that already and it’s not going to work.”

“There’s a key in Lydia’s office. And she’s currently in a meeting with Harris,” Derek says over his shoulder, already making his way down the hallway towards the office. Stiles follows.

“Oh. A key. Right. Obviously there’s a key.”

“You didn’t know there was a key?”

“In my defense, I haven’t been in the office in years. Lydia and I have most of our meetings in my bed,” Stiles says absently, ogling the way the fabric stretches tightly over Derek’s butt as he walks. He only regains focus when his face smashes into Derek’s back.

“You _what?”_ Derek says, lips tugging down in displeasure. 

Stiles mentally runs through what he’d said, his cheeks burning at the insinuation. “In my _bedroom_. On top of the covers. Well, not always, uh, that doesn’t make it sound any better does it?” He flounders, struggling for a better way to explain. “She’s practically my cousin. Or estranged aunt. One of those, we didn’t decide.”

Derek’s expression doesn’t change.

“We’re just friends. No, wait, maybe not even friends. Uh, whatever it is that we are… is platonic.”

“I didn’t ask, but okay,” Derek says dryly.

“Nope. I suppose you didn’t.” Stiles cringes at his own awkwardness. Smooth.

o0o0o0o

_Heather and Stiles were eleven years old. They spent the past few hours in Claudia’s large dorm, celebrating their mother’s birthday by playing cards and stuffing their faces with cake. It had been going well until Heather accused Stiles of breaking the rules, which led to a heated, but quiet argument as the two tried to hide their fighting from Claudia in the connecting room. She was always so disappointed whenever they fought and they didn’t want to ruin her special day._

_Unfortunately, Walmart didn’t share the sentiment._

_Their whispered insults were instantly replaced by horrified shrieks which summoned a frazzled Claudia out of the bathroom._

_“What’s— oh.”_

_Heather dashed past her, closing the door as she hid in the bathroom while Stiles gaped at the gory sight in front of him._

_There was a man— or perhaps it had once been a man, but was now a bundle of mangled flesh, it was difficult to tell— where a black crow once sat in the corner of the room. It looked disturbingly like a human stretched and twisted into a horrifying pretzel shape, or perhaps a large, pale pretzel with vaguely human features. Stiles would’ve thought it was dead if it weren’t moving. The creature’s limbs contorted, spun, and warped in ways that would have been impossible for any living human to do, the movements causing it to rock back and forth._

_Walmart, his familiar, for the third time in a year and a half, had killed himself. Though this time he hadn’t stopped at simply committing suicide. No, this time was worse. He’d wrapped his arms around his neck, brutally snapping it until his head was completely turned around, and contorted his limbs and spine until bones snapped and limbs tangled, eventually becoming this_ **_thing_ ** _._

_Stiles knew this wasn’t usual behavior for a familiar. His eyes watered as he eyed the monstrosity, wondering what was wrong with Walmart._

_Because, Stiles knew, without a doubt, that there was something very wrong with him._

_“It’s okay, sweetheart. Leave him be,” Claudia instructed, her hand a heavy weight on his small shoulders._

_But Stiles didn’t move._

_“Why is he so weird?” he grumbled, eyes locked on the swaying bundle. He could hear Heather’s quiet hiccoughs through the closed door, which only made him feel worse about ruining Claudia’s birthday._

_“He’s a little different, is all,” Claudia said._

_Stiles whipped around to face her, scowling at her lies._

_Stiles had read the witchcraft books. This wasn’t what a familiar was supposed to do. They weren’t supposed to cause fear or revulsion, and they certainly weren’t supposed to repeatedly kill and torture themselves._

_“He’s not ‘a little different’! He’s awful! Why can’t he be normal like Spike?” Stiles whined._

_Claudia frowned down at him, disapproving. “Sweetie, Spike wasn’t made the same way Walmart was. I chose to make him.”_

_“You mean he acts like this because I accidentally made him when I lost control?” Stiles asked, gnawing his lip and eyeing Walmart with growing concern._

_“No. Because you made him at a time when you were very, very scared. You must understand… how you were feeling at the time you made him, those intense emotions and your magic, are what created him. They’re at the core of him.”_

_Claudia was trying to comfort him, Stiles knew that, but her words only made him feel worse, an awful feeling of guilt clawing its way up his spine._

_As if sensing she’d upset him, Claudia bent down and softly said, “It’s okay. He’s more fearful than most and he doesn’t know how to express it. It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”_

_Stiles choked back a whimper, his tears starting anew. He shook his head violently. She didn’t get it._

_“You’re wrong, Mom. It is my fault,” he said, struggling to speak through his sobs. It was true that he’d been terrified the day he’d lost control. But, more than overwhelming fear and agony, he had felt something else. Something worse._

_“I wanted to die. I wanted to be anyone or anything, even if that meant being dead.” His face contorted with pain at the memory. He turned to Walmart and finally released the sob in his throat. Guilt and self-loathing colored his words as he confessed, “I didn’t know that would make you. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”_

_Claudia was devastated by the admission, her sorrowful eyes darting between her son and the morbid mutation in the corner._

_“Oh, my poor boys. You’re so young, you shouldn’t know that kind of pain, my darling. My precious boys. I’m so, so sorry.” Her arms wrapped around him, her lips whispering gentle words of comfort in his ear. But he wasn’t listening and couldn’t feel the warmth of her against him. He peered over her_ _shoulder, eyeing the empty space where Heather had been. She’d run away, unable to stand being in the same room as Walmart._

_He understood then, why Walmart was the way he was. There was no way the familiar didn’t despise him, didn’t want to cause him as much pain as Stiles had brought him._

_This wasn’t weird, harmless behavior. This was revenge._

_Walmart was going to scare everyone away, including those he loved. No one would want to stand by his side, not if it meant being stuck by Walmart’s side as well._

_Was this what he had to look forward to? Was this his future bundled grotesquely in front of him?_

_Stiles was responsible for Walmart’s constant agony, so Walmart was going to be the cause of his._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Walmart's episode summary (for non-horror fans):** Walmart coats the cafeteria floor with strawberry jelly because he wants to celebrate Valentine’s Day extra, extra early this year (jk it’s blood), writes a Stiles a love letter on the wall (saying ‘everybody you love will die’. A classic love note. Stiles loves it), and invites all of Stiles’ friends (Allison, Derek, Scott, Heather, and Laura) to ‘hang out’. Unfortunately, they took the term ‘hanging out’ a little too literally, so now they’re sleeping (they’re 100% dead). They also have fluffy pink boas wrapped around their necks, because fashion! (It’s actually their intestines. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me). **[end of warning]**
> 
> Shoutout to Virebax who, on ch 7, commented that it would be funny if Stiles tried disappearing himself again, only for Derek to call him out on his shit. The idea stuck with me and I couldn't resist.
> 
>   
>  _It's chapter ten and we're at that point where mysteries will start to unravel over the next few chapters. For future bragging rights, go ahead and place your bets on who you suspect the mole is in the comments below. We'll see if your theories are right by the end of this story ;)_   
> 


	11. Like Mother, Like Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What day is today? Today's a weekend, right? ;)
> 
> Thank you for your patience! Here's an extra long chapter for an extra long wait! This chapter isn't beta'ed, please forgive any mistakes/errors.

The trip to the records room is quick, but no less unpleasant. The only way in or out is through a dimly lit stairwell leading down into an ominous basement. It is the perfect setting for a horror movie or a meeting place for a cult to perform a human sacrifice. It just has that kind of feel to it.

Puddles decorate the stone steps as water lazily drips down from the ceiling. There's no noise or any signs of life other than the sounds of their footsteps echoing. A metal gate at the bottom of the stairs blocks them from the hallway leading to the secret room. There is nothing inherently threatening about it, but the hair on Stiles’ arms raise as he moves closer to the gate. With tentativeness, he reaches out towards it and gasps softly at the brief sensation of electricity jolting through him. It is an uncomfortable feeling and what follows it is even worse. The simple touch has leeched the heat from his body and cut off his magic, leaving nothing in its wake but a hollow sensation inside him.

Iron.

Past the bars, he can see a metal railing lining the stone walls, connecting to the gate and extending into the darkness. If he steps into the hallway, he will be severed from his magic, from that vital piece of himself, until he returns to these stairs.

“Stiles?” Derek prompts, undoubtedly confused by Stiles’ intense silence.

“Let’s go,” Stiles says impatiently. “You have to be the one to open the gate.” It’s possible that he could open it himself, but he honestly doesn’t want to. The press of iron against his skin would leave burns and welts on his skin for his efforts.

He may not be vain, but he’d rather not add more hideous scars to the extensive amount currently on his body.

The gate gives easily as Derek pushes against it. Stiles shivers as he passes through the opening. His body feels colder, inside and out, the warmth of his magic disappearing instantly. He doesn’t have to pull up his sleeves to know that his tattoos are unmoving and void of life.

As they make their way through the hallway, Derek’s forehead creases with disdain. The already pungent smell of mold must be overwhelming to his heightened senses. With each step they take, an unsettling feeling grows in the back of Stiles’ mind. It's like a sense of recognition, like he's been here before. But he hasn’t.

Right?

It’s like a memory just out of reach, taunting him as he scans the familiar stone walkway and occasional light bulb that dangles from the ceiling. The sensation strengthens, becoming more persistent as they reach the end of the hallway. When presented with two options: left or right, Derek reaches for the map in his back pocket, and Stiles heads right, ignoring Derek’s protests.

“Did you memorize the map or are you guessing?”

Curtly shaking his head, Stiles frowns at his own inexplicable certainty. He knows where he’s going. He doesn’t need the map. But how?

He doesn’t get to dwell on it for long. After two more turns, the remaining walk to the records room ends. It is at the end of the last hallway, just three walls, and another gate. This one is darker and thinner than the iron fence before.

Derek pulls out the keyring he nabbed from Lydia’s office on the way here. It had been unexpectedly easy to break into her office and find the keys. Derek had broken through the door with a single punch and he knew exactly where the keys were, grabbing them while Stiles magically repaired the splintered wood. Stiles would be suspicious of how simple it had been, if he didn’t know Lydia to be far too trusting for her own good. Eventually, he will have to have a talk with her about being less trusting. But, for now, he is selfishly thankful for it.

Derek curses under his breath when none of the keys work, the gate stubbornly remaining locked.

Struck with an idea, Stiles whistles and imagines Walmart beside him. Walmart dutifully appears and shifts into a key before Stiles can so much as say “hello”. Stiles smiles gratefully despite his head throbbing from exhaustion. He’s pissed at Walmart for his most recent episode, but he can’t deny he’s thankful the familiar is cooperating now, likely trying to make amends.

Stiles lifts the black keys from the ground and pushes them into the lock. The metal creaks open. He waggles his brows at Derek, expecting his partner to be pleased by his ingenuity.

That isn’t the case.

“What,” Stiles directs at Derek’s bitchy expression.

“Why did we break into Lydia’s office when Walmart can shift into a key?”

“Oh.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck. His headache gets stronger. “I didn’t think of it before.”

In his defense, he is running on multiple days of little sleep and has lost a large amount of blood in the past twenty-four hours. Derek needs to cut him some slack.

Derek scoffs, but holds his tongue. He passes through the gate, brows raising when on the other side.

“What?”

“The bars are made with mountain ash.”

Natalie didn’t want people snooping around in here, especially not supernaturals. What was she trying to keep hidden?

The gate groans shut as Stiles walks inside. He nearly trips over Walmart as the bird hops between his feet, unbothered by the iron although Stiles knows it affects him too. Usually, he can feel the thin tendril of magic that connects Walmart and him, but the iron has temporarily severed that tie between them. It is strangely disconcerting.

Walmart’s black, beady eyes intelligently scan the room, as though looking for something in particular. Stiles follows his lead, squinting against the yellow-light coming from the single light bulb in the middle of the ceiling. He soaks in their surroundings. The space isn’t much larger than his bedroom, and it is vacant except for the steel cabinets stacked from floor to ceiling. To his shock, the drawers open easily under his hands. They are packed with files, agents names printed on the top and arranged in some nonsensical order. Derek peers down over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Whose file are we looking for? Matt’s?” Derek asks.

Stiles tightens his grip around the cabinet, struggling to keep his focus on the task at hand when Derek is standing unnecessarily close.

“Yeah.” Stiles lets out a pleased sound as he finds the file labeled ‘Matt Daehler’. He absently hands it off to Derek, eyes roving other the other names and trying to piece together the sense in their order. Agent Ximenia is filed right next to Daehler, so it isn’t arranged alphabetically. What if they aren’t organized at all?

Derek mercifully ambles off to read, leaving Stiles to his search. He sifts through three drawers before he comes across Alan Deaton’s name. Briefly, he wonders if he’s doing the right thing. Does he want to open this can of worms? Does he believe Deaton is capable of being the mole? The doctor he has known and trusted for seventeen years? Does he have reason to mistrust the doctor who has bantered with him, patched him up, and offered valuable advice, even when it was unwanted?

He reaches out to take the folder.

The mole could be anyone, friend or foe. He has to remember that.

His gaze flits over to where Derek is seated on the ground, file open in his lap and lips pursed in concentration.

It could be _anyone_.

When he tries to shut the cabinet, a sharp screech of protest makes him jump back in alarm. Walmart perches on it, head dipped low as he eyes the papers with interest.

“Have at it, Lassie.” Stiles leaves it open and plops down next to Derek.

Deaton’s folder is peculiarly thin for someone who has been working at the agency for over twenty years. There are only a handful of pages inside, most of them pictures of Deaton’s various medical achievements over the years with paragraphs describing each.

No matter how hard Stiles tries, the words blur like a camera lens struggling to adjust focus. He can’t concentrate with Walmart noisily digging through the steel drawers. He grabs papers with his beak and tosses them onto the floor in a messy pile.

Stiles holds back a groan. After nearly eleven years of this, he somehow still manages to be disappointed when Walmart acts like a toddler.

“Whose file is that?” Derek asks, noticing the files in Stiles’ lap.

“Mine.”

Derek accepts the answer easily. Even if the mountain ash didn’t suppress his hearing, he wouldn’t have recognized the falsehood. Because it isn’t technically a lie. It is a file, currently in Stiles’ possession, which makes it his.

He peers down at the papers, determined to read, only to be distracted once again by Walmart. This time, he is hopping around in a now-empty cabinet, biting at the metal hinge above until the drawer slides closed and seals him inside.

Derek’s head is dipped as he reads and Stiles should be doing the same, but he can’t help but worry about what Walmart is getting up to. Probably nothing too terrible, since he can’t set himself on fire without using magic. Unless he morphs himself _into_ fire. Stiles stiffens at the thought of Walmart, a bird with a love for self-immolation currently being locked in a room with Derek, a man with a severe phobia of fire.

He sends up a silent plea to whomever is listening that Walmart won’t do anything psychologically traumatizing.

Derek pulls him from his thoughts, bumping Matt’s folder against Stiles’ knee.

“Find something?” Stiles accepts the file and skims it, grateful for the quiet Walmart-less atmosphere.

The documents are filled with random facts and bits of information, some of which hint at Matt having a darker side. For instance, Matt is bilingual, fluent in both French and English. That _proves_ there's something wrong with him! No decent person speaks French.

As Stiles continues to read, his suspicion grows.

Matt was introduced to the supernatural world when he was a freshman in high school because of a kanima attack on his school’s swim team. SUPE sent agents to cover it up and capture the kanima, only to discover a survivor amongst the bodies: Matt, who had hidden under corpses to stay alive. Immediately, Matt became obsessed with the agents that rescued him and stowed away in their van, determined to join the agency.

After multiple lengthy interviews, he was allowed to join the training program.

“He was the only one to survive the kanima attack,” Stiles says dubiously.

Despite being only thirteen, and the youngest kid on the swim team, Matt survived an attack that slaughtered everyone else. Everyone, including the widely-hated coach.

“The coach had multiple complaints filed against him for encouraging bullying, but the principal never did anything about it,” Derek says, sifting through the pages until he finds the one he is talking about.

“A teacher had filed the most recent complaint on behalf of _Matt_ ,” Stiles mutters, rubbing at his the tired strain in his eyes. “Nobody thought that was suspicious?”

“Matt was thoroughly questioned and deemed ‘not a threat’. They thought he’d make a good agent, since his survival instincts were so strong.”

“Who interviewed him? It should’ve been obvious that he had a part in the attack!”

“Your mom.”

Stiles is simultaneously amused and mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

Derek is unimpressed. “ _Your mom_ interviewed him.”

All humor escapes him as Stiles glares down at the pages, mouth flattening into a hard line.

“Why would she… She must’ve realized Matt was involved. She’s smart. She wouldn’t have missed that.”

“Hey. Stop.” Derek tugs the papers out of his grip. Stiles reaches for them, but Derek halts him with a firm hand against his chest.

“Listen to me. It was a tough call, you can’t fault her for letting him stay.”

“She blatantly ignored murder! Matt should’ve been arrested or turned away!”

“Claudia was an amazing agent, but she had a soft spot for kids in bad situations. Matt was a thirteen year old boy with no friends, who was bullied, and had an alcoholic single-mother.” Derek’s eyes gentle, and Stiles can’t look away, even as Derek slowly withdraws his hand. “Your mom had to decide between sending him back to the Outside, where he could do something worse, or accepting him into the program to be trained and rehabilitated. Which would you have chosen?”

“Not to take in a murderer,” Stiles argues petulantly.

“What about the siren kids? Aren’t they killers?”

“That’s completely different.”

“Is it? What about you? Or me? We’re murderers too, aren’t we? Her decision made sense.”

“I am nothing like Matt!” Stiles hisses and stands, sending Deaton’s file scattering onto the ground. Derek eyes the papers, but doesn’t comment on them.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m asking what reason Matt has to be the mole. Why do you suspect him?”

Irritation flares up within him because _he doesn’t know_.

“It’s a feeling in my gut. There’s something off about him. I can’t explain it. It’s this intense feeling that I get whenever I’m near him, like something isn’t _right_.” Stiles paces by the gate, fingers tugging at his hair.

“How long have you felt that way about him?”

“For as long as I can remember.”

“He might be a bad guy,” Derek quietly offers. “But that doesn’t mean he’s our mole.”

Stiles barks out a harsh laugh, his steps halting.

“You don’t believe me, what an unexpected turn of events. I am _shocked_.”

“I didn’t say that.” Derek stands, calmly placing Matt’s file over Deaton’s papers. “I know you don’t trust him, and I believe you that he isn’t a good guy. But, if you are convinced he’s the mole, we need concrete proof to give Lydia.”

If only it were that simple, but it’s not. The only way to get ‘concrete proof’ would be to catch Matt in the act of treason, which is easier said than done.

Frustrated and exhausted, Stiles strides towards the exit. This search was a waste of time. He resists the urge to lash out; Derek doesn’t deserve that. He isn’t being unreasonable by suggesting they need proof. It’s the truth. Lydia wouldn’t accept a ‘hunch’ as evidence against another agent.

He attempts to open the gate, but to no avail. He grunts, shoving his body against the unmoving bars, watching in horror as his feet slide across the floor.

The gate doesn’t move an inch.

That is definitely not good. It must have closed and locked automatically after they entered. If they want to get out, they need the key.

Stiles’ narrowed eyes search the room, like missiles seeking out their target. A target that is currently _missing_. Oh. No.

“Where is Walmart?” Stiles darts towards the cabinets, tugging open every drawer, each one coming up Walmart-less. “Did you see him leave?”

Derek shakes his head, equally puzzled by Walmart’s absence. He can’t use his magic in here, can’t teleport or change dimensions on a whim. While he could morph into different shapes, he couldn’t have escaped without one of them noticing.

So where is he?

“Walmart!” Stiles bellows, summoning him, though he gets no response. Even without magic, a familiar is _obligated_ to respond to their witch’s summons. The only way he could get away with ignoring it is if…

“I know you’re in here, you shitty excuse for a shadow puppet!” Stiles scans the room, his panic rising when Walmart fails to show.

He wouldn’t leave Stiles here with Derek, locked in a room with nothing to do but read or _talk_ , right? No, he wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t hate Stiles _that_ _much_ … does he?

The silence in the room grows louder.

 _Fuck_.

o0o0o0o

_Stiles squirmed in his seat, hands fidgeting and eyes wide as Natalie stared at him from her desk. She was stoic as she subjected the six-year-old boy to her harsh scrutiny._

_“Miss Julia said you were misbehaving in class today,” Natalie said._

_Stiles hunched further into his seat, wishing he could hide from her sharp tone. It reminded him of his mother and how he used to hide in the closet to escape from her cruel words and the pain of her hands. It reminded him of his home: of smoke, fire, and screaming._

_Stiles blinked rapidly, wishing the memories would go away. He mumbled a reply, flinching when Natalie snapped at him to speak up._

_“I didn’t misbehave.”_

_“Are you calling Miss Julia a liar?”_

_“No! But—”_

_“I didn’t ask for an excuse, child. There are no ‘buts’ here. You either did or you didn’t misbehave.” Natalie’s eyes narrowed, like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse. “Which is it?”_

_He hadn’t misbehaved, or, at least, he hadn’t meant to. Miss Julia just made him so angry sometimes. He hadn’t meant to set her hair on fire. It was an accident._

_Stiles clamped his mouth shut and grabbed at the sides of his chair with small hands, scowling down at the floor as if it were the cause of all his problems._

_“I won’t ask you again.”_

_“I misbehaved,” Stiles grumbled._

_“You misbehaved what?”_

_“I misbehaved, ma’am.”_

_“Stop swinging your legs and look me in the eyes,” Natalie ordered. Stiles obeyed. “You need to learn to be grateful. Miss Claudia is the best agent we have and she chose to step away from the field to teach **you** how to use magic. You should feel honored. Do you feel honored?”_

_“Yes,” Stiles said miserably._

_“Yes, what?”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_“Is Miss Claudia wasting her time training you? Should I send her back to where her time would be more valued and appreciated?”_

_Stiles’ eyes widened at the threat, his fingers going white as they clamped down around his seat. Natalie wouldn’t take Claudia from him, would she? Everyone said the field was scary and dangerous, what if Claudia went on a mission and didn’t come back? Or worse— what if she liked it more than teaching him? What if she decided she didn’t want to be around him anymore?_

_“No, ma’am,” Stiles blurted, eyes brimming with tears. “Please. I’ll be good.”_

_“Honestly, I don’t think you’re capable of being ‘good’. Look at you, child. You can’t sit still for five minutes. You lash out at anyone who tries to help you. All of your teachers have complained that you’re a pain to teach since you refuse to focus for one simple lesson. Simply put, Stiles, you’re useless to us.” Natalie rubbed at her temple, as though him being in her presence caused her physical pain. “When you first came here, I had hopes that you would be the next Claudia Gajos, but, I see now that I was wrong. You’re worthless with that selfish attitude of yours.”_

_Stiles’ chin wobbled under the weight of her cruel words. Maybe it was true, after all. Maybe he really was worthless. Hadn’t his mother said the same thing to him? He thinks she did. He remembers a woman’s blurry face, her mouth spitting insults and painful curses at him as he ran._

_He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, a desperate attempt to keep himself from crying. Natalie **hated** when people cried in front of her._

_She saw through him anyway._

_“Are you upset?” Natalie shook her head in disappointment. “You are a sensitive one, aren’t you? Can’t even handle a little constructive criticism. What a shame. How did I ever think you could become a good agent when you have such thin skin?”_

_“I will be!” Stiles blurts as tears flowed down his round cheeks. “I’ll be good! Please don’t take Miss Claudia away. Please.”_

_Natalie sighed. “You know I can’t understand you when you’re emotional.”_

_Stiles steadied his breathing the way Claudia had taught him to whenever he got upset, though it didn’t work as well without her there to instruct him._

_He swiped at his eyes, sniffling as he stared up at her with clear eyes. It never made sense to him that, between the two of them, people believed he was the evil one. Although, perhaps there was some truth to the rumors about him. Maybe he really was a slave to the devil._

_“Please don’t take Miss Claudia away. I’ll be good,” he promised._

_Though the words were simple, they felt heavy on his tongue, like he was selling his soul. Perhaps he was. That would be fine. He would happily live in hell forever if Claudia was there with him._

_Natalie leaned back in her chair in quiet consideration._

_“I suppose I’ll give you another chance. There will be no more after this, Stiles. Don’t test my generosity.”_

_“Thank you, ma’am,” he said._

_When she pulled paperwork out of a drawer and began reading, he hopped down from his chair, knowing he was dismissed. The door opened before he could reach it, held open for him as Claudia stood in the doorway. She smiled down at him, eyes lighting up with relief._

_“Hey, honey.”_

_They walked down the hallway, hand in hand, heading towards the cafeteria. Claudia always took him to get food after meetings with Natalie, and would give him her dessert too, since she knew how awful the director could be. As much as Stiles hated being yelled at, knowing he had two desserts to look forward to made it easier to bear._

_“How did it go?”_

_Stiles shrugged, but his smile dropped. Claudia’s eyes dimmed and she gently squeezed his hand._

_“Where’re we going?” Stiles asked nervously, clutching her hand with both of his as they passed the cafeteria. Where was she taking him? Was he still in trouble? Was she **mad** at him? His heartbeat sped up with panic at the thought of her being upset with him. She was all he had; the only good thing in his life._

_“It’s okay, sweetie. We’re paying Deaton a visit,” she said calmly._

_It wasn’t enough to ease his fears. “Why?”_

_Claudia’s footsteps halted and she bent down beside him so their eyes were level. “Sweetheart, you know how you have nightmares about the Outside?” Stiles nodded. “And how you get so upset you set things on fire when someone yells at you?”_

_“I didn’t mean to set Miss Julia on fire,” Stiles said, desperate for her to believe him and not hate him._

_“It’s alright, I know. I’m not mad. You didn’t set anything on fire that didn’t deserve it,” she said in a playful tone, though her eyes remained burdened._

_“But Miss Jula—”_

_“That includes Miss Julia.” Stiles gaped at her. Claudia sighed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t encourage that. My point is, Deaton thinks his friend, Deucalion, might be able to help you.”_

_“How?” Stiles asked, puzzled._

_“Rumor has it, Deucalion is the best nightmare slayer in the agency. He’s so good at fighting them, you won’t even remember they existed,” Claudia said._

_Stiles blinked up at her. “No more nightmares?”_

_“No more nightmares.”_

_“And then I’ll be a good agent?”_

_Claudia hesitated, her light-hearted demeanor wavering as pain flickered across her face. “Yes, baby. Then you’ll be the best agent.”_

_“Okay,” Stiles said, though his voice was subdued. Would Deucalion really help him? Or would he always be worthless, like Natalie said? What if he was so broken that nobody could fix him?_

_“Wanna hear a joke I heard this morning?” Claudia abruptly asked. Stiles perked up with interest._

_“Yes, ma’am!” He smiled sheepishly at Claudia, both of them noticing his slip, but neither mentioning it._

_“Alright.” Claudia squeezed his hand again. “A werewolf, succubus, and wendigo are stranded on a desert island…”_

o0o0o0o

They sit in awkward silence, waiting for someone to stumble upon them. Stiles’ fingers tap restlessly against his knee. How often do people come down here? Probably not during the night, like now. Will they have to wait until morning? What if nobody comes at all and Walmart doesn’t come back?

Are they going to die of starvation? Or boredom? What if he has to use the restroom? Does he have to do that in front of Derek? That is gross and unsanitary. Is this going how he dies? Trapped in a cold, stone room, suffocating on the thick silence between them because Derek doesn’t know how to hold a conversation?

Screw it. He’s _not_ going to die without getting some answers first.

“Hey, uh, can I ask you a question?”

Derek grunts. Stiles hears, _“Yes, go ahead, Stiles. I would love to answer any and all questions you may have for me.”_

“Why didn’t you believe me? About Laura?” It has been bothering him for some time and, although he may not want or like the answer he gets, he needs it.

The question hangs uncomfortably in the air, the two of them staring at each other with tense shoulders and dim eyes.

“I don’t have an excuse.”

“Then make one up.”

Derek glances away, too ashamed to face his mistakes.

“I don’t know. I guess I was thrown by the reports and recordings, and hearing you’d been suspended for treason. I saw you shoot her, but I should’ve realized you weren’t in your right mind.” Derek’s hands on his knees clench. “I know you. I’ve known you for years. I should’ve recognized you weren’t acting like yourself.”

Stiles purses his lips and keeps his bitterness inside, allowing Derek the opportunity to explain. They won’t make any progress if they don’t own up to their mistakes, accept them, and forgive.

“I let other people’s doubts get into my head.” Derek’s frustration bleeds into his words. “And yet, Cora watched the same recordings, read the same reports, heard the _same_ condemning whispers and _she_ still believed you. I should have too. I’m not proud of that.”

Derek falters, as if unsure whether or not to continue. He does.

“What does that say about me? That I was so quick to condemn you?”

The admission doesn’t make him feel any better, but he hadn’t expected it to. Although, it seems Derek feels more for him than he realizes.

There is a thin line between love and hate. If Derek hadn’t felt anything towards Stiles, he wouldn’t have been so affected by the assumed betrayal.

But Derek needs to figure that out for himself.

“Cora said she recognized the look in my eyes. I assume she was referring to the horrified ‘what the fuck is going on and how did I become a murderer’ look and not the overall ‘I’m dead inside’ look,” Stiles offers, trying to make his tone light and joking, but falling flat.

Regardless of Derek’s mistakes, Stiles wants to ease his conscience. There is too much suffering at the agency already.

“And she isn’t influenced by other people’s opinions. She blazes her own trail and tells everyone else to fuck off. Which is great, but honestly, I’m not sure if she does that because she’s fiercely independent or because she literally doesn’t care about others. You can’t compare yourself to her.”

Derek frowns, as though the insinuation that his younger sister might be a sociopath isn’t comforting.

“Cora believed you because she’s anti-social and dead inside,” Derek reiterates flatly.

“Kinda? I think you feel too much, which clouds your judgement, but she feels too little and trusts nothing but what her own senses tell her.”

“And her senses told her you were innocent.”

“Guess so.”

Derek crosses his arms defensively, like he's preparing to say something unpleasant.

“I think I blamed you because it was easier than blaming myself. Erica and I were supposed to work that mission, but I begged Lydia to send another team.” Derek swallows thickly. “Erica had had a seizure the day before and I wanted her to have more time to rest.”

“So Lydia sent Laura and me instead.”

Derek nods curtly, jaw clenched and eyes guilty when he looks up.

“That’s not your fault.”

Stiles halts when there is a foot of space between them, not wanting to get too close. The last thing they need is a repeat of the forest. But, this time, the air is thick with loss and vulnerability, instead of desire.

He hadn’t asked the initial question in order to make Derek miserable or to watch him beat himself up with ‘what ifs’. Derek has suffered enough, has blamed himself far too much over the years for the death of his family. Stiles won’t let him add the weight of Laura onto his already burdened shoulders. There is only so much a person can handle before the weight of their guilt and mistakes crushes them.

“You can’t blame yourself for protecting Erica. You did the right thing.”

Derek shakes his head, eyes hardened. “I keep making mistakes. I keep _hurting_ _everyone_.”

“Not everyone.” Stiles’ lips quirk, ducking his head to catch Derek’s eyes. “You haven’t hurt Walmart.”

Derek glowers. “I shot him.”

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t count. Shooting him doesn’t injure him, at least not physically. Psychologically, maybe, but who knows— he might actually enjoy it.”

“You and Erica made it out to be a huge deal!” Derek says, forgetting his guilt in the face of Stiles’ mischievous smile.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sorry. You deserved a shoe to the head. The point is, you don’t have to worry about it anymore, okay? Walmart’s pretty hard to kill.”

Derek doesn’t appear to be reassured.

“Why is that?”

“He’s a special case,” Stiles hedges, growing uncomfortable with the discussion. He purposely avoids talking about Walmart in depth like this. It’s too dangerous. “He was created in a lab accident involving sugar, spice, everything nice, and a little bit of Chemical X.”

“What.”

“Dude, have you never seen ‘The Powerpuff Girls’?”

Derek’s forehead scrunches adorably, but he ignores the question. “Walmart’s invincible because he’s ‘a special case’?”

“He’s not invincible.”

“He survived being shot. Multiple times. Plus various suicide attempts.”

“He’s not invincible,” Stiles says firmly. “He might be able to do more things than familiars typically can, but that’s because he was made _wrong_. He’s a relatively harmless demon-bird in dire need of a good therapist, okay? And he can die. Just not easily.” His voice cracks and he coughs to cover it, forcing down his fear.

He hates to admit it, even to himself, but, like any other familiar, Walmart can be killed. Not that Stiles would ever let that happen, no matter how annoying the bird is.

He hopes that’s the end of the discussion, but, of course, Derek can’t let it go.

“What happens if he dies?”

Stiles inhales sharply at the thought. “Not sure. It varies person to person. I haven’t thought about it, but, I suppose the best case scenario would be that I die immediately.”

“That is the _best_ _case_ _scenario_? What’s the worst?” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at Derek’s horrified expression.

“I die agonizingly slowly or end up in a magically-induced coma.” He pauses, mind whirring with possibilities. He gasps at one particularly awful thought. “Or I’m in a coma _while_ dying slowly and painfully…”

Derek opens his mouth, only to be steamrolled by Stiles as he continues.

“…And Heather shows up to save me at the last minute. She casts a spell to plant my consciousness in someone else’s body, but there’s a mistake! Instead of taking over the life of a handsome millionaire, I wake up as _Adrian_ _Harris_. I’m trapped; forever cursed to be a deathly-pale man with strangely child-like features and beady eyes—”

“Stiles—”

“—and look like the kind of guy who thinks Edward Cullen is suave and vampires are edgy. I can’t live a life like that, Derek. I can’t!”

“I see you haven’t given it much thought,” Derek deadpans.

“Not at all.”

He’s floating, warmth spreading through his chest as he basks in the rare sight of Derek’s genuine smile and laughter. Derek shyly dips his head to hide it, but the damage has already been done. Having Derek’s adorable grin directed at him, bunny teeth peeking out from under his upper lip as he softly laughs, is the final nail in Stiles’ coffin. Place him in a hearse and send him home, he is _done_. Nothing will ever top this.

With that happiness comes another crushing realization. He may never get over Derek Hale.

“We’ll have to keep you and Walmart alive then,” Derek says teasingly.

“Oh?” Stiles rasps, afraid to say too much in fear of accidentally ruining this moment.

“We can’t have you in a position of power. You’d cause all sorts of trouble.”

Stiles tries to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. “You say that like I don’t already.”

“And you say that like you’re pleased.”

“Of course, I am. It’s a talent being this troublesome,” Stiles says with a cheeky wink.

Derek rolls his eyes, but the smile. is. still. there.

Are they flirting? He’s pretty sure they are flirting. Can he ask? Is he allowed to ask? Or will drawing attention to it ruin it? He should have paid more attention to all those Rom-Com movies Claudia loved to watch.

Twenty-one years old and he has never had a relationship. His first kiss was Scott McCall when they were both seventeen, because Allison had arrived at the agency and Scott was freaking out about being a bad kisser (not like it mattered in the end, since it took him _years_ to make a move on her).

Scott had been panicking over wanting his first kiss to be perfect, but Stiles hadn’t considered his kiss with Derek. What if he’s a bad kisser? Would Derek tell him the truth if asked? Or would he lie about it? Worse yet, what if he’s too honest about it and says Stiles is terrible? He would want to practice to get better, but he wouldn’t force Derek to suffer through teaching him.

Stiles runs through his options. Scott has Allison, which rules them both out. Lydia’s completely off the table. Cora might kick him in the balls for suggesting the idea…

Which leaves one option.

Walmart.

Is it considered bestiality if Walmart can morph into people? Or is it somewhere along the lines of ‘xenophilia’? What if Walmart shifted into a copy of Stiles and then they kiss? Is that a form of incest? Self-cest? Stiles-cest?

Can Walmart consent to kissing if he can’t talk?

“Stiles!” Derek shouts. He must have said it a few times already.

“What?”

“You smell stressed.” Disappointment surges through Stiles at the sight of Derek’s usual frown, the beautiful smile having come and gone too quickly. “What were you thinking about?”

“Kissing Walmart.”

“ _What_.”

By coincidence or having grown bored of hiding, a mouse-shaped Walmart skitters out from under the cabinets, his tiny teeth clamped on a folder six times his size as he drags it along with him. At the sight of his familiar, seemingly oblivious to and unbothered by Stiles' unfortunate situation, all thoughts of kissing Walmart vanish. Instead, the anger from before comes rushing back.  
  
The scene in the cafeteria was difficult enough to forgive, and then he has the _nerve_ to carelessly leaving Stiles locked in a room with Derek. _Alone_.

“You little asshole!” Stiles snatches the folder, using it to smack the black mouse around. “I’m done with your shit! You will _never_ taste a plum again, do you understand or should I translate it into your language?”

Stiles howls with rage as he continues his assault. Mouse-Walmart squeaks, his tiny legs pumping as he struggles to escape Stiles’ wrath.  
  
No matter how many hits Stiles lands, Walmart’s squeaks still sound like laughter.

“What is that?” Derek asks, yelling to be heard over the chaos.

“A mental breakdown,” Stiles pants, cutting off his screams to answer.

“No, what is _that?”_

“What’s what?” Stiles asks. Derek angles his head towards the object Walmart had brought him. “Oh.”

Stiles examines the folder in his hand. Nerves flutter in his stomach as he runs his fingertips along the name printed at the corner.

Claudia Gajos.

In his peripheral, he notices mouse-Walmart hopping around delightedly. Stiles’ stomach sinks, knowing his familiar is happiest when causing trouble.

Stiles darts towards him. “No, don’t—”

Stiles’ hands close around air as Walmart skitters back under the cabinets. Stiles releases an animalistic cry of frustration, kicking at the steel drawers. After, he lowers himself to the ground, blindly sweeping his arm in the inch of space at the bottom.

He finds nothing but spiderwebs.

“Seriously?” Derek says, unimpressed.

“Shut it. I don’t see you doing anything to get us out of here.”

Stiles accepts defeat, rising to his feet and wiping the webbing off his hands. He reaches for the dropped file and staggers over to the wall. Back pressing against the cold metal bars, he slides down to the ground and eyes the folder with caution.

Walmart brought him this for a reason, wants Stiles to read it and won’t let them out until he does. But what if he opens it and doesn’t like what he finds?

For seven years, he had no answers. He had imagined Claudia living somewhere by the ocean, a secluded area where she makes it snow whenever she wants, practicing her magic with the freedom she never had here. In this fabricated reality, Claudia waits for Heather and him to find her and reunite their family.

This file will shatter that illusion. He won’t be blissfully ignorant after hearing the truth.

“Are you going to open it?” Derek’s eyes are heavy with sadness, lingering on Claudia’s name.

“I’m scared.” It is little more than a whisper, but it’s enough for Derek to hear.

“I’m here. If you want to open it. I’m here.” Derek slides closer until they sit side by side, shoulders touching. Derek’s physical presence doesn’t calm him, but he feels more grounded, less likely to drift away if he gets swept up in his fears.

“Okay.” Stiles angles the folder, allowing them to read it together. Whatever truth is inside, he doesn’t want to face it alone.

This won’t destroy him. It can’t tell him anything he didn’t already suspect.

He opens the file.

Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t.

Bile burns his throat, but he forces himself to read every word, to understand what happened, and not hide from it, no matter how awful it may be.

And it is. Awful.

Derek stiffens beside him. Stiles wallows in self-hatred.

Why hadn’t he investigated Claudia’s disappearance sooner? Because he wanted to avoid the truth? Because he was scared of what he would find?

Natalie was right. He’s too selfish to be a good agent. How could he be, when he can’t be a good son?

A teardrop splatters onto the page and the words blur through his tears.

“She’s dead.” He forces the words out through a constricted throat. “Peter killed her.”

For the first time since her _death_ , he says the words aloud and accepts that they are real.

They taste like ash in his mouth.

Tilting his head back against the rough wall, Stiles lets the information sink in. His mother was dead. She and Peter had gone on a mission in California. It was a last-minute assignment to rescue supernatural children on the run from hunters. Claudia couldn’t refuse. Derek was right, she had a soft spot for kids in trouble.

However, there never were any children to save. When Peter returned to the agency alone, his partner buried in a preserve in a small Californian town, his mission had been completed.

Stiles had a gut feeling Peter had been involved, but he hadn’t thought Natalie was behind it all. The agency was in dire need of magic users, why would they murder their best mage? He never imagined Natalie would be that desperate. But he understands now.

The answer lies a few pages in. It is under Peter’s detailed testimony of how he had torn out Claudia’s throat while her back was turned and buried her body in the woods like a dead animal, and serves as another cruel reminder that he can’t trust anyone.

Because Deaton is the reason Claudia was murdered.

Natalie knew Claudia was unhappy, knew her beloved mage wanted to leave, but she didn’t know how seriously Claudia had thought about leaving. Not until Deaton sat in her office and informed her of Claudia’s plan to leave with Heather and Stiles.

Natalie could have handled losing Claudia. The agency would’ve felt her loss, but it could still function without her. But, without any magic users at all, it could not.

With one conversation, Deaton had sealed Claudia’s fate.

Until now, Stiles never would have believed their director would have an agent killed. But the agency will do anything to survive. _Anything_.

Did Lydia know? Had she kept this a secret from him? If she didn’t know, would she have agreed with Natalie’s decision? Is she capable of doing the same?

Stiles wipes at his wet cheeks, calmly hiding the fury simmering under his skin. His muscles tighten as he fights the urge to charge into Lydia’s office and release his magic, letting it set fire to everything she holds dear like Natalie had done to him.

He’s quietly thankful for the iron room sealing his magic and keeping it contained. With his emotions churning violently within him, there is no way he would be able to prevent his magic from lashing out. Walmart wouldn’t be strong enough to halt the flow of magic, he is too weak of an anchor for Stiles, too unstable to properly do his job of preventing magical meltdowns. It had never mattered much before, since Stiles had found stability through multiple anchors. Though he didn’t have one solid anchor, he had many smaller ones that, when combined, were worth the same.

Stiles presses his side more firmly against Derek’s, grateful when he doesn’t pull back. He leans his weight onto Derek and presses his face against Derek’s shoulder, feeling his warmth against his cheek and inhaling Derek’s scent below the agency’s detergent.

“I’m sorry,” Derek murmurs.

Over the years, Stiles has anchored himself with various things: Laura’s vibrant laughter at his jokes, the dumb things Scott says to make Stiles laugh until he cries, and Allison’s dimples when she smiles.

The way Heather would tease him mercilessly the way only siblings could, the knowing glint in Melissa’s eyes whenever he talks to her about Derek, and Claudia’s proud smile.

Walmart’s harmless shenanigans, the affection Lydia held in her eyes, and Derek’s… everything.

His stunning multi-colored eyes that crinkle at the edges when he smiles, his intelligence (he was top of his training class alongside Laura), and the witty banter he has with Stiles.

Somehow, as Stiles lost anchors, he planted more and more in Derek.

When had Derek joined Walmart as the primary anchors in his life? Sure, Derek has been a stable presence in his life, but not enough to warrant the responsibility Stiles is subconsciously placing in his hands.

And yet, he doesn’t regret it. Derek is the one who’s here with him, trailing his fingers soothingly through Stiles’ hair as tears soak his shirt.

Stiles sinks further into his misery as guilt sets in. Deep down, he’s always known Claudia would be disappointed in him for staying here. But, the knowledge that he’d been too scared to investigate her death would’ve devastated her.

She deserved a better son than him.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” Derek’s fingers tug lightly at his hair. Stiles doesn’t respond.

He lets out an agitated noise when Derek moves, though he quiets when Derek settles, having adjusted their position so Stiles straddles his lap. He hums lowly when thick, muscled arms wrap around him, securing him in place.

Sagging against him, Stiles allows himself to be held, though he doesn’t deserve it.

It feels like he did back in Laura’s room, cocooned in the safety of her blanket and wrapped up in the comforting smell of someone safe. And Derek is safe. After the last mission, Derek has proved that Stiles can trust him his life.

But that doesn’t mean Stiles can trust him with his heart.

His muscles relax as the arms around him tighten. Derek may not know that he’s one of Stiles’ anchors, but he’s acting like one, instinctively grounding him through touch.

He doesn’t know how long they stay cling to each other, Derek holding him together as he tries his best to fall apart. But the position isn’t comfortable and Stiles pulls away, his lower back twinging in discomfort. He leans back, eyes widening when Derek lifts his head at the same time. Their noses almost touch in their closeness and neither of them move.

Stiles’ gaze drops to Derek’s lips, heart thundering when they come closer, a soft pressure against his own. With a shaky exhale, Stiles presses into it, eyelids closing as he loses himself in the kiss.

Their last kiss was like thundering drums, the energy of it sparking excitement and a little bit of fear inside him. He had felt _alive_. It was passion, anger, and desperation.

But this one is different.

This kiss is softer. Their lips are dry and hesitant, but their hands pull at each other, both of them trying to bring their bodies closer. Derek’s fingers ghost over the mark on Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shudders, his eyes clenching tighter at the gentleness of the touch.

Instead of heat and passion, Stiles is dizzy with affection. The kisses are far kinder than Derek’s words have ever been, and speak louder than anything he has said before. Though Derek may not realize he has feelings for Stiles, he kisses him like Stiles is precious, someone he’s terrified of losing or hurting.

“This is a bad idea,” Stiles mumbles lowly, only to reconnect their lips again. It’s not his fault. He is trying to be rational, but Derek’s lips are addictive.

“Maybe.”

Though they cling to each other, their kiss remains unhurried. It deepens as Derek’s tongue makes an appearance and Stiles’ lips twitch upwards, making it difficult to kiss. Derek remedies that, grasping Stiles’ waist and guiding him into a slow grind against his lap.

All thoughts of keeping it unheated and unhurried fly out the window.

Stiles gasps when he moves his hips and meets a thick, firm line underneath him. A wave of desire surges through him when he realizes what it is.

“Did you bring your gun with you?” Stiles asks.

Derek huffs a laugh. “No.”

“Seriously? Is that—” Stiles groans as Derek bucks his hips, making it clear what it is. Stiles grinds down, eyes wide. Fuck, it feels good. How can it be this amazing and they still have their clothes on? “Holy shit, dude.”

Derek lets out a small noise, his hands clenching painfully around Stiles’ waist, wordlessly begging him to keep going. His fingers dig in and Stiles knows he’ll likely have bruises tomorrow.

Stiles swivels his hips, pulling back to grin wickedly at the way Derek’s head tilts back, mouth open as he pants.

“Stiles.”

Stiles trails his tongue along the bulging vein in his neck, pressing a soft kiss below his ear. Satisfaction rolls through him at Derek’s blatant desire. His erection throbs, painfully constrained behind the zipper of his pants.

There were no sirens influencing them now, no excuse to hide behind. Stiles wanted Derek, and Derek wants him back.

But he already knew that. He knows Derek wants him, desires him, but not in the way Stiles does.

Derek might like him.

But Derek doesn’t _love_ him.

Derek _will_ _never_ love him.

What is he doing? He told himself he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t accept whatever he could get from Derek. He deserves better. He deserves someone who loves him back, even if that person isn’t Derek.

Why is he doing this? Is he trying to punish himself for being a shitty son, by proving that he is unlovable and unworthy of a healthy relationship?

Stiles stills in Derek’s lap, cold despite the warm body under him. Derek blinks groggily, like waking up from a good dream he doesn’t want to end.

“Stiles?”

Stiles jolts up and puts space between them.

It starts with one step. Then another and another, until his back hits the cold metal of the cabinets. Derek stands, equally alert and puzzled as he watches Stiles.

“Why did you do that?”

Stiles crosses his arms and pulls his shoulders in, bracing for a painful conversation. He doesn’t want to be here. He would rather be anywhere else, but he can’t escape.

Where the fuck is Walmart?!

“Why did I what?” Derek asks. Stiles licks his lips and struggles to keep his eyes above waist level.

“What the fuck do you think, Derek? Why did you _kiss_ _me?”_

“Why did you kiss me back?” Derek fires back, petulantly, like a child.

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he sees his brain.

“Do you really think this is a good time to kiss me? After I found out my mom is dead?”

Derek flinches. “I wasn’t trying to take advantage—”

“I’m not suggesting you’re taking advantage. I’m saying I can’t handle this right now.”

“Can’t handle what?” Derek asks quietly, eyebrows knitting together.

“You. This. _Us_.” Stiles gestures wildly between them.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need you to stop.”

“Stop _what?”_

“You know!”

“I don’t! You’re not making any sense. What am I supposed to stop doing, exactly?” Derek snaps, exasperated.

“Giving me hope!” Stiles shouts, immediately wishing he could take it back. Derek stares, dumbfounded, eyes wide like Stiles brained him with a shovel.

“Giving you hope…?”

Stiles wrings his hands in front of him. This is it. He needs to be upfront and honest, to end this— whatever it is— between them.

“That you love me back.” His voice cracks embarrassingly and he clears his throat.

“You don’t love me.” Stiles’ teeth grind at the certainty in Derek’s voice. He doesn’t have a clue, does he?

“Yes. I do.”

“You don’t. You’re attracted to me. That’s all it is. You don’t know me. You can’t possibly love me. Nobody—” Derek cuts himself off.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

With sudden clarity, Stiles realizes that Derek’s hesitation isn’t about him at all. Derek doesn’t think he’s worth loving, doesn’t believe that Stiles could possibly love him— not because he thinks Stiles is incapable of loving him, but… because he doesn’t think he’s worthy of it.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Derek struggles with the idea of love. The first woman he’d ever loved lied to him, manipulated him, and used him as a pawn to murder his entire family. Who wouldn’t be traumatized by something that like? Besides, as far as Stiles is aware, he’s never dated since Kate. The only relationship he’s ever had was horrendously abusive, and despite Deaton’s best efforts, the agency’s therapeutic services don’t inspire confidence, to say the least.

Heart aching painfully in his chest, Stiles wonders if he’ll ever be able to convince Derek that his feelings are real. He won’t know until he tries. With that thought, Stiles steels himself to face rejection, willing to carve out his insides and put them on display, as long as it means Derek might give him a chance.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” Stiles admits, raising a hand to keep Derek from interrupting. He obligingly closes his mouth and listens. “When I first saw you, I didn’t love you. I admired you. You were broody and constantly scowling at people, but I thought you were amazing. You and Laura survived the loss of your entire pack, but you didn’t give up. You chose to move forward with your lives and learn from your mistakes. _You_ , Derek Hale, are the strongest person I’ve ever met. I admired you for that. I still do.”

He keeps his gaze focused on a spot over Derek’s shoulder, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable as his secrets bubble to the surface and spill out of him.

“When you arrived at the agency, I was twelve years old and had no friends besides Heather, who hated me half the time. Everyone thought of me as either the ‘untrustworthy demon kid’ or the ‘freak with the suicidal bird’. But you never treated me any differently than other kids. You hated me because I was an annoying shit, not because you thought I was born evil.”

Stiles takes a breath. When had his confession become a monologue?

“I was obsessed with you for years, but fell in love with you slowly, over a long period of time. I didn’t realize how I strongly I felt until the day of my graduation.” Stiles grimaces, embarrassed by the memory of Derek witnessing his breakdown. “It was before the ceremony was supposed to begin and you found me when I was—” having a panic attack. Freaking the hell out. Afraid he was going to die. “—upset. You stayed with me, comforting me, until I calmed down.”

Stiles risks a glance, though he’s not sure how he feels about Derek’s clear astonishment.

“I love you because you’re strong. You overcame trauma after trauma and you didn’t let it ruin you. You worked hard to move forward, to rebuild your pack with Laura, and, though you could barely tolerate me, you helped me when I needed it most.”

“When I look at you, I don’t see a guy I want to climb like a tree, I—” Stiles pauses and backtracks, “No wait. I mean, I _do_ want to climb you like a tree, but I also see us growing old together. I see us with a large backyard with woods to explore, and a huge house where we host weekly movie nights with a pack of our own. Jackson’s not allowed in it though, I’m sorry, that’s a deal breaker.”

Stiles exhales roughly when he finishes, his anxiety skyrocketing when Derek’s posture tenses.

“Please say something.” His palms are clammy, the hairs on his neck damp with sweat, but there is a sense of relief now that the truth is out there.

With all the possible ways Derek could reply to him, Stiles had not anticipated what actually comes out of his mouth.

“I can’t stand Jackson either.”

Stiles wheezes, unsure as to whether he wants to laugh or cry over the fact that Derek is _still ignoring the point_.

“That’s it? That’s what you have to say?” Stiles asks, voice cracking with emotion. He’d laid himself bare, offering himself up for Derek’s scrutiny and rejection, and he doesn’t have the decency to at least give him an _answer?_

Derek’s eyes are huge with panic, his face pale. It isn’t the pleased expression of someone whose crush has just confessed their feelings. In fact, it looks strangely like…

Terror.

“What are you so afraid of, Derek?” Stiles prods, stepping closer. For once, he feels like the predator between the two of them. “If you’re going to reject me, then reject _me_. I’m not Kate Argent, I will never hurt you like she did,” Stiles says, unable to keep the hurt and desperation from seeping into his voice. “I’m not her. You have to know that. I would _never_ —”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Derek says softly.

“Then what are you afraid of?” Stiles exclaims, frustrated. “Use your words for once in your life!”

The desperation in his voice seems to come across. With startled eyes, Derek gazes back at him with a new intensity and curiosity, as though the weight of Stiles’ confession, the depth of his emotions, has sunk in.

Nodding to himself, like he’s realized it’s time to stop running from this and hiding from their potential, Derek finally caves.

“I’m not scared of you hurting me. If we… I’m scared of what _losing_ you might do to me,” Derek says raggedly. “Losing my family nearly killed me, Stiles. And then I lost Laura. I can’t lose you too.”

The words are achingly familiar, just like the desperate pleas whispered in a heated forest under the watchful eyes of sirens and their manipulations.

_“Don’t leave… You can’t leave me too.”_

But they were alone now, with no excuses to hide behind. There is nothing between them now but the truth.

Derek cares for him. Cares for him so much he’s terrified of the thought of losing him, and losing himself in the process. It makes sense, now that he thinks about it. Derek’s never been known for having great control over his shift, but he’s been skirting the line of sane and feral these past few weeks— mostly around Stiles.

Because, like Cora had said, Stiles makes him _feel_ things; and Derek, the poor emotionally-stunted man, never learned how to control his emotions. Only how to suppress them.

Like a ghost, Kate still haunts him to this day.

Stiles’ breath hitches, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest. It’s not a confession of love, but it’s damn near close enough.

He strides forward with determination, eyes searching for any sign of discomfort. Derek stares back with resignation, as though he’s too exhausted to continue fighting against this— whatever it is— between them.

Stiles cradles Derek’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze.

They’ve been through hell, they’ve treated each other like shit, and now…

Now, they can focus on healing those wounds. Together.

“I’m not going anywhere, big guy. They’ll have to pry me off you with a crowbar.” Stiles says, matter-of-factly. “Okay?”

Derek nods in his grip, though there’s still a hint of wariness to him.

That’s okay. Stiles is willing to repeat it as many times as it takes to ease his fears, because Derek deserves to be loved. He’s _worthy_ of love.

And, for the first time in a long time, Stiles believes he might be worthy of it too.

“For the record, I meant what I said in the woods too. All of it,” Stiles murmurs, his voice pitched low at the memory of how he’d shamelessly begged for Derek to mark him, to never stop touching him.

 _That_ seems to capture Derek’s attention.

His gaze becomes heated, his pupils expanding until the beautiful colors of his eyes are nearly engulfed with black. He looks devilish himself.

Stiles really, really wants to kiss him again.

And again.

And again.

Forever.

And Derek might let him.

Derek’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Can I…”

Footsteps reverberate through the hallway, a figure’s shadow moving across the stones. Stiles instinctively takes a step back, putting space between Derek and him.

“Adding breaking and entering to your ever-growing list of crimes, are we?” an unfortunately familiar voice rings out.

Of _fucking_ course this would be the asshole who finds them.

Harris stands in front of the gate, the bars casting shadows across his body. He angles his head towards Derek.

“And you dragged him down here with you too. What a shame you’re becoming such a bad influence on your partner, Stiles.”

“You can’t blame people for committing crimes you taught them how to do,” Stiles says, relieved when his voice comes out steady.

“How did you find us?” Derek asks.

Harris sneers. “You missed the camera by the stairs.”

Well, that’s embarrassing.

“You’re the person behind the security cameras?” Derek asks, sounding unusually disturbed. Stiles shoots him a questioning glance. Derek’s lip curls. “I have to tell Erica.”

“What? Why?” Stiles asks. Harris’ smarmy grin is the only answer he receives. “I feel like I’m missing something here.”

“I’ll tell you later,” Derek grumbles.

“As wonderful as this chat has been, Lydia will want to speak to you both.”

“It’s awfully late for a meeting, isn’t it?”

“We make exceptions for criminal and treasonous activity.”

“Lucky us.”

“Indeed. Now, will you come quietly?” Harris asks impatiently.

Stiles plasters on an impish grin, his cheeks twitching from the strain of it.

“I can’t speak for Derek, but I usually _come_ loudly.”

Harris’ lips curl. Derek grimaces. Tough crowd.

“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you. Natalie’s been lenient on you in the past, because of your mother, but her patience has an end.”

The door swings open, bringing with it a mixture of relief and dread. A black worm drops from the light bulb and wriggles on the floor and morphs into a crow. Walmart flaps his wings and dives for Claudia’s file, cawing excitedly as he soars past Harris.

Harris reaches for him, but ends up with a handful of black feathers instead of the secret file. He rounds on Stiles and Derek, red with rage, and snaps at them to get moving.

They make their way through the hallway with Harris at their heels like a man marching criminals to their execution.

“Any last words?” Stiles mumbles under his breath. Derek’s lips tilt.

“Stop talking!” Harris commands.

“Dude, have you met m—” Stiles wheezes as he’s shoved against a wall, moldy stone like sandpaper against his cheek. Harris’s bony elbows jam painfully into sensitive areas, preventing him from struggling.

“Respect your superiors!”

Stiles gasps, air rushing into his lungs as Derek throws Harris off him. Derek’s fangs drop, eyes glowing red. His clawed hand wraps around Harris’ neck, muscular body pinning him against the wall.

“Touch him again and I’ll tear your throat out.” Derek scrapes a claw lightly over Harris’ jugular vein.

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d be _put down_ ,” Harris chokes out, hands tearing uselessly at the grip around his throat.

“I dunno. I saw the whole thing and it was self-defense,” Stiles says smugly. “After all, there aren’t any cameras down here. Just the one by the stairs, right?

Harris narrows his eyes at him, but stills in Derek’s hold, no longer fighting. At least he’s smart enough to know when he’s outnumbered. Derek releases him and Harris adjusts his suit with a scowl.

“Let’s keep moving.”

‘That was hot’ Stiles mouths at Derek. Despite not wanting to raise Harris’ ire by speaking anymore, he can’t resist waggling his eyebrows suggestively at his partner— almost-lover? semi-boyfriend? future husband? Derek rolls his eyes and looks away, but Stiles isn’t fooled. He sees the way Derek’s ears tint pint with embarrassment at Stiles having witnessed him defending his honor.

 _Adorable_.

 

Stiles’ knee bounces and he bites at his thumbnail. Derek sits beside him, frowning as if Stiles’ anxiety personally offends him.

The taste of iron bursts on his tongue when he yanks the hangnail from his mouth. Lydia takes her seat at the desk in front of them, her green eyes cold and calculating. Stiles shudders at the familiarity of it, having been on the receiving end of Natalie’s harsh stare many times before.

“Let the interrogation begin,” Stiles grumbles.

Lydia is carefully blank. “This isn’t an interrogation. It’s a conversation. And I only have one question.”

“Shoot your shot.”

“What the hell were you thinking, breaking into the records room?! What is wrong with you?!” Lydia snarls, losing composure startlingly fast.

“Technically, those were two questions.”

_“Stiles!”_

“I’m just saying, I’m not sure which one you want me to answer.”

“Both!”

“But you said ‘one’. Didn’t she say ‘one’, Derek?”

“She did say ‘one’,” Derek agrees.

Stiles gestures towards him with a hand, as if to say, ‘see?’. He has a hunch that, if he had supernatural hearing, he would hear the sound of Lydia’s teeth grinding.

“Fine,” she growls. “Why were you breaking into the records room?”

“That’s a different question.” Derek says.

Although this is a terrible, awful, no-good situation, Stiles can’t help but feel giddy at having Derek’s pettiness on his side. Dealing with obstacles with a partner is _way_ better than going about it alone.

Lydia’s cheeks redden with frustration and Stiles takes pity on her. They had been friends once, after all. Though they may never be again. Not when he knows the truth about what happened to his mother.

“We were doing research,” he explains.

Her eyes lose some of their fury. “Research. And you didn’t think to ask me for help instead of breaking into the records room?”

Stiles winces. “Y’know, when we were discussing strategies, it didn’t come up.”

“I thought we were friends!”

“We’re not.”

Hurt flashes across Lydia’s face quicker than she can hide it.

“I see. My mistake,” she says.

“Since this is a _conversation_ , and conversations involve two people talking, I think it’s my turn to ask a question. Did you know about my mom?”

Lydia’s nose scrunches in bewilderment. “What about your mom?”

“Oh, not much. Just that Natalie had her murdered,” Stiles says casually, though his heart pounds, pumping his veins with resentment.

“What?!” Her mouth drops open in stunned disbelief. “No! Jesus. She didn’t— She would _never_ do that. I would know. She would have told me!”

Stiles glances at Derek. Derek’s head tilts as he listens to her heart.

“Not lying,” he says.

Stiles nods and snaps his fingers. He envisions Claudia’s file laid out on the desk in front of him, summoning it to the room. A round object solidifies in his hand and Stiles curses, instantly recognizing it. It’s _not_ the case file. It’s so much worse.

His bottle of lube.

“ _Shit_. That’s not what I meant to...” He fumbles with the bottle, mortification filling him as he drops it in Derek’s lap.

He’s notoriously bad at summoning things, why the _hell_ did he think it would be a good idea to try and summon something in front of an audience?!

He mumbles his thanks as Derek hands it back to him, both of them pointedly avoiding eye contact.

Ears and cheeks burning, Stiles tosses it into a nearby trash can without a second thought. It’s not like he can use it again without thinking of this moment. At least he knows he doesn’t have a humiliation kink. That’s always useful information to have. There’s always a silver lining, right?  
  
…Right?

“Can we pretend that was the mission file?” Stiles asks, voice strangled.

“Wish I could,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles shoots him a venomous look, non-verbally communicating the depth of his betrayal with his eyebrows.

Taking a breath to compose himself, Stiles tries again, this time summoning Walmart instead. Familiars were much easier to call on.

On cue, Walmart _pops_ into existence, his feet tip-tapping on the desk as he peers up at all of them.

“Hey, buddy. I still think you’re a turd for the cafeteria stunt, but I might reconsider, if you bring me Mom’s file,” Stiles says amiably.

Walmart stares at him, as though considering whether or not the offer was worth his energy.

Apparently it is.

Walmart retches, his body expanding with every heave and gag. On his fourth one, when his body reaches the size of Stiles’ pillow, Walmart vomits heavily, like a flooded dam breaking open. He violently ejects a folder along the waterfall of green goo which vaguely resembles and smells like bile.

All three agents leap away, shouting in disgust.

Walmart finishes and disappears, leaving the surface of the desk covered in a thick layer of goo, the folder sitting in the middle of it, blanketed in the tacky substance and on fire.

 _Fire_. Where did the _fire_ come from?!

“Give me your shirt,” Stiles demands, palm extended. Derek crosses his arms and scowls petulantly. “Don’t be a child. Give me your shirt so I can put it out _before the flames get bigger._ ”

Derek growls in frustration, but tears off his shirt and thrusts it at him. Stiles takes it, sweeping his eyes over the deliciously sculpted torso beside him. He _cannot wait_ to have a body like that rubbing against him— but that’s not important right now. Nope. Not at all.

He bats at the flames with the shirt until they slowly dissipate, leaving behind a smoldering, but intact folder. The shirt is a sticky bundle when he hands it over. Derek accepts it, but doesn’t put it back on. What a pity.

Lydia opens the file, scowling at the strings of goo connecting the pages. She ignores her disgust and focuses on reading, her eyes flickering back and forth. Her face drains of colors as understanding dawns.

“I didn’t know, Stiles. I swear. I would never have kept this from you,” Lydia says, panicked and pale, her eyes wide.

Stiles drums hands on his thighs. “And the lie detector has determined, that is…”

“True,” Derek says.

“Shit, really?” Stiles exclaims. Derek nods. “That sucks. I was hoping to burn this place down.”

“There’s always next time,” Derek offers.

It’s a good point, since Lydia seems to be making a habit of keeping secrets and disappointing Stiles. He tilts his head, conceding.

“This isn’t you, Stiles. Why are you acting like this?” Lydia asks.

“Acting like what?”

“You know what.” She stares back at him in defiance.

It’s true. He knows what she wants to say. He’s acting like a _monster_.

But the village people thought Frankenstein’s creation was a monster too, and that wasn’t true. The real monster was Frankenstein himself.

“You think I’m acting? No, Lydia. I am fed up with everyone treating me like I’m less than nothing,” Stiles seethes. “I’m tired of being lied to. Tired of being the agency’s pawn. And, you know what? I’m worth something!”

He leans forward, palms flat on her desk.

“Whether you knew about Claudia or not, it doesn’t matter. Natalie killed my mother, an agent, and who knows who else she had murdered. Lucas? Laura? Anyone who dared to oppose her? You are Natalie’s daughter and successor. How does this reflect on you?”

“Poorly,” Derek chimes in.

“Thank you, Derek.” Stiles says, though his eyes remain on Lydia. “How do you think others will react when it gets out that agents are being killed at the director’s discretion? How will they react when they find out Natalie is _dead_ and a twenty-one-year-old was left in charge? I don’t think it’ll go over well, do you?”

He can feel Derek’s surprised eyes on him, hearing the truth in his words.

Natalie Martin is dead and Stiles isn’t afraid to let it slip.

Lydia lifts her chin, eyes blazing.

“I bet people won’t want to stay here after. And, despite what Natalie may have taught you, _Lyds_ , you can’t stop everyone from leaving.” Stiles’ lips pull back on a sneer. “You can’t kill us all.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Clearly you’ve made up your mind about me. But I never took you for someone who’d resort to blackmail,” Lydia says coolly, but Stiles knows her well enough to see the fear behind her mask of confidence. “It’s below you, don’t you think?”

“I’m a demon, remember?” Stiles says. “We’re a petty bunch.”

Derek snorts. Lydia shoots him a disapproving glance, not appreciating their camaraderie.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Stiles.”

“Oh. No, I’m not playing games anymore.” He steps back from her desk, posture straightening. “But, if I were, this is the point where I’d say ‘checkmate’.”

“What do you want in exchange for your silence?” Lydia examines her nails with forced casualness, as if she weren’t giving in to his threats.

“The yeti knows how to find the hunter’s den where she was held captive. There may be other shifters there in need of rescue. I want to go.”

“Me too,” Derek says.

Stiles blinks at him, a small part of him still hesitant to believe that Derek might enjoy spending time with him. Derek stares back without a hint of uncertainty, putting those doubts to rest.

“I guess you can come too,” Stiles says, secretly preening.

Lydia frowns. “If I’m understanding correctly, you want an untrained stranger to lead you into a hunter’s den— where they have been torturing and killing supernaturals. A den that’s probably occupied and heavily armed.”

“That about sums it up,” Stiles says.

“That’s a suicide mission!”

“Don’t get my hopes up!” Stiles’ grin fades at the ensuing silence. “What? Too dark?”

Lydia’s cold demeanor softens with concern. But he knows better now than to believe she cares about anyone but herself. She truly is Natalie Martin’s daughter.

“Do you accept my terms or not?” he impatiently asks.

“I’ll accept on the additional condition that you don’t leave the agency,” she says.

Stiles goes rigid. Say what now?

“We need you here,” she says imploringly. “And you need someone keeping an eye on you. You’re worrying me.”

“I don’t think you understand our situation. Between the two of us, I’m the one with the leverage,” Stiles says.

“You have valuable intel, sure.” Lydia shrugs. “But I’m the one with a van, weapons, and enough tranquilizers to knock out a yeti for months.”

Touché.

“What’s stopping me from agreeing, going on this mission, and running away later?” Stiles smugly asks, knowing he has the upper hand.

She falters, her whole demeanor tensing, as though pained by what she’s about to say.

“I know how to kill Walmart.”

The temperature in the office drops.

Stiles stands like a statue: frozen in place and skin cold to the touch. That was the one thing he hadn’t expected to come from her mouth.

He must’ve misheard. She couldn’t have said…

“I know how to kill him. Natalie taught me that,” Lydia says, confirming his fears. Her eyes are red, as though her words were as devastating for her to say as it is for him to hear. “Along with the knowledge that sometimes you have to do bad things in order to do good.”

“You can’t be serious,” Derek snarls.

“You’re so scared of me running away, that you’d have him killed— have _me_ killed?” Stiles asks her, the rage inside him so strong he feels numb and eerily calm. “I suppose Natalie taught you that too.”

“You’d lose your magic, but it probably wouldn’t kill you,” Lydia softly defends, like that makes the situation any better.

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Hadn’t Braeden warned him that desperate people make the worst monsters? Hadn’t Heather told him that people would only disappoint them? He should’ve listened.

Lydia and him are, and always will be, far too similar. And they will tear each other apart in their desperation if they aren’t careful.

Her eyes spill over with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry it’s come to this. But I can’t let you leave. I need you, _everyone_ needs you, for this place to function. Please don’t hate me, I need you to understand. Please.”

“I understand,” Stiles says cooly. Relief flickers across her face, though it fades instantly when he continues, “I understand why you’re doing this, Director Martin. You’re looking out for the 'Number One'. Only, I hadn’t realized it until now, but your number one priority is you. You’re looking out for _you_. Nobody else.”

“That’s not true,” Lydia says, voice wavering with emotion. “I’m only doing this because I care about this place more than I care about myself! If I cared about me, then I wouldn’t be doing this right now.”

“Threatening to kill him, you mean?” Derek fills in, a challenge in his eyes.

Lydia falters. “Not Stiles. I only threatened Walmart.”

Derek snorts derisively, seeing through her bullshit as much as Stiles.

“You know that’s the same thing,” Stiles says. “If you use that information, you’ll have nothing but a dead witch’s blood on your hands. Then you’d get your wish, you’d make Natalie Martin proud of you. You and I both know she never wanted anything more than to mold you into her clone.”

Like mother, like child.

Lydia’s lower lip wobbles, her tears flowing steadily down her cheeks, no longer attempting to stop them or hide her vulnerability.

Despite his harsh words, and his fury at his situation, he knows he can’t fight against this threat. Not if Lydia’s is willing to follow through with it. Stiles has resented his familiar for years, has blamed him and hated him for most of his existence. But, the truth is, despite this hatred, Walmart has loyally protected him anyway.

Even when Stiles had believed the worst about him, Walmart did his _best_ to be a good familiar. He continuously has followed through on his obligation to keep his witch safe. But that obligation goes both ways, and Stiles has never tried to be the best witch in return.

He can change that. He needs to change. Stiles is the reason for Walmart’s suffering, and he won’t be the cause of his death too. He can do better.

He _will_ do better.

“I didn’t want this for us,” Lydia says. “But you were right. I need to stop making excuses. I need to focus on making this a better place.”

“And you plan on doing that by threatening to kill an agent?” Derek snaps, speaking before Stiles has a chance to.

Stiles blinks, watching him with surprise, but Derek’s furious gaze remains steady on Lydia.

“Do you know how witches make their magic stronger, Derek?” she asks. When he shakes his head, she clarifies, “They do it through sacrifice, believing that, in the end, what they gave up will be worth the reward.” Her green eyes bore into Stiles’.

“You’re sacrificing our friendship,” Stiles says flatly as the meaning sets in.

“I’m willing to do what it takes to make this place better,” she says with sadness. “Whatever sacrifice it may take. The agency’s mission is more important than me, than you, than us. What we’re doing will change _lives_. We can end this war.”

“May your sacrifice be worth it,” Stiles says coldly, then adds, to Derek, “We should leave on the first van tomorrow. Ask Scott and Allison if they want to come. I’m taking the night off.”

Exhaustion sets in his bones and weighs him down. His head pounds angrily, body begging him to sleep. He won’t get much rest before their mission begins, but he’d rather work himself to death than spend more time in this building than necessary.

“I’ll come with you,” Derek offers, rising from his seat.

“Thanks, but a lot’s happened today and I’d like to take some time to process,” Stiles says quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”

Derek reluctantly nods, and Stiles offers him a small smile, grateful for his company today. As shitty as the day was, at least something good came out of it.

He throws open the door, striding out, walking straight into a weighty figure. He stumbles back, mood souring further when he sees what, or who, he ran into. Matt Daehler.

“For fuck’s sake, at least look where you’re going,” Matt snaps.

“What are you doing here, Matt?” Stiles grinds out.

How long had he been waiting outside of the office?

“None of your business.” Matt crosses his arms over his chest.

Stiles scoffs and steps around him, not in the mood to deal with his particular brand of bullshit right now. As he wanders towards his room, replaying that conversation in his head, he notices that Daehler hadn’t asked why he’d been in the office in the first place.

Had Matt heard them yelling from outside? How much, if anything, had he heard?

He drops down onto his bed, groaning loudly at the comforting feeling of _finally_ being in his bed. He quickly drifts off, no longer concerned with Matt.

It’s not like it matters if he heard anything or not. Even if Matt is the mole, there's nothing from that conversation he could use against them. It's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that updates will be slow over the next few weeks. Not only is it holiday season, but I'm also dealing with my own personal issues at the moment. I'm trying my best. That said, thank you so much for your patience and the AMAZING comments on the last chapter <3 I loved reading everyone's theories! Thank you all for sharing them.
> 
> **EDIT 12/27/18: Next chapter will be posted in January!**
> 
> _My questions to you are: What did you like most in this chapter? And what should Walmart/Stiles' ship name be? Wales? Smart? Something else? ;)_  
>  _(I'm kidding. Please don't come after me with pitchforks. There will be no Walmart/Stiles)._


	12. Revelations (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a dark chapter. Warnings are as follows: torture, Walmart-related gore (as usual), experimentation and mutilation, and death. No major characters are involved in the torture/experimentation or killed. If you’re concerned, see endnotes for details.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'ed. Let me know if there are any glaring mistakes that need fixing.

_The sun was setting and Derek felt nothing but relief now that this terrible day would soon be over. Despite his hatred of it, the anniversary happened every year, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of loss, suffocating guilt, and painful memories._

_Derek sat in the agency’s graveyard, his elbows resting on his knees as he wearily observed his family’s tombstone. Slabs of concrete littered the graveyard. They had been created out of respect for members of the agency, to give them a physical place to grieve. There were hundreds of headstones, but only a few actual bodies rested in the ground. Most of which were agents that had died over the years._

_Derek dropped his head into his hands and wished, not for the first time, that his name was on the gravestone along with the rest of his family. But he couldn’t do that to Laura. He couldn’t take away the last of her family; not when he was the reason they were alone._

_Uncle Peter might still be alive, but he wasn't the same as before the fire. There was something missing in his eyes now, as though he were dead and rotting on the inside._

_“Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be alone on a day like this.”_

_Lifting his head from the safety of his hands, Derek turned towards the familiar voice. Claudia smiled, her long-sleeved dress flowing softly despite the still air._

_“Do you mind if I join you?” He shifted over on the bench to give her space to sit. “I heard from Harris that you’re set to graduate soon.” Claudia faced forward, light brown eyes focused on the headstone engraved with ’HALE FAMILY’. “But he says you’re struggling with passing the ‘control’ portion of the exams.”_

_Shame churned in his stomach. His mom had always stressed the importance of control, had taught him many ways to manage his shift, and yet, here he was, eighteen years old and unable to find an anchor._

_It was pathetic._

_**He** was pathetic._

_Claudia went on, unbothered by Derek’s silence, “Did you know that brimstone witches, like werewolves, often struggle with finding an anchor? And, without it, they can lose control of their magic?”_

_Derek’s voice was rough from disuse, “Brimstone witches?” He had never heard that term before._

_Claudia’s soft smile remained, even as her light brown eyes filled with black. It was as though someone had taken a black marker and colored the entirety of her eyes._

_Derek’s eyebrows rose with fascination. He had seen Stiles’ eyes do the same thing, but never knew what it meant. He had assumed it was something every witch’s eyes did, but now that he thought about it, Heather’s eyes had never turned black. Only Stiles’. And now Claudia’s._

_“Witches with demon blood,” Claudia said._

_“I didn’t know that,” Derek replied, uneasy._

_He wasn’t sure what to think about it. Demons were despicable and monstrous. One of the worst creatures in existence. They lived and thrived on chaos, misery, and bloodshed— or, at least that was what he had been taught by Jennifer, the agency’s ’Supernatural Creatures and Beings’ instructor._

_While Stiles was an annoying pain in his ass, he wasn’t malicious or cruel. And Claudia, despite the rumors of her ruthless past as a field agent, had never seemed anything but kind-hearted._

_He watched her often, mesmerized by how much she reminded him of his own mother. It was undeniable that she was an incredibly patient and devoted woman, and he couldn’t help but feel conflicted about this new information. She was the last person he would call ‘demonic’._

_“That Stiles and I have demon blood in us or that we struggle with control?” Claudia asked, blackness receding from her eyes, returning them to normal._

_“Both.”_

_“Some people look down on us for it. They think we’re tainted. Impure,” she said, eyes on her hands that rested in her lap, as though imagining the atrocious acts they could commit._

_“What do you think?”_

_“I think it’s beautiful, but I didn’t used to. I used to be ashamed of my lineage. My family was hunted because of it, because my father was a demon.” A chill ran through Derek at the acrid smell of longing and sorrow pouring off her. His lips parted as he focused on breathing through his mouth, but it barely dulled the smell. “But then, from the moment I first saw Stiles, my mind was changed. He looked up at me with his black eyes and his tiny, innocent smile, and I realized there was nothing impure or ugly about it. He is the most amazing boy, and he and his sister have been the best part of my life.”_

_Claudia took a breath. Her cheeks were damp, but her voice was steady. “However, that didn’t mean raising him was easy. He struggled with controlling his magic for quite a few years and, unfortunately, he was almost consumed by it. Like you, we had to find him an anchor. So, we did. And so his magic became stable, but his human side did not.”_

_Derek frowned, uncomprehending. “What do you mean his human side wasn’t stable?”_

_“He had panic attacks often— among other issues. Deaton said that he’d been traumatized from his experience of losing control. After the incident, my happy little boy was suddenly struggling with anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, and stabilizing his emotions. He couldn’t believe in himself, couldn’t trust himself again after he’d hurt us. Perhaps you might understand that particular struggle,” Claudia said._

_“I believe in myself just fine, Miss Gajos,” Derek said curtly, perhaps his tone held a bit too much bite for addressing a superior, but Claudia didn’t bat an eyelash. She likely knew she had overstepped, comparing Derek and her son. Their situations were nothing alike. Not even remotely similar._

_“Please, call me Claudia,” Claudia said, aggravatingly patient as always, “and I wasn’t thinking that, per se. But I do wonder if you’ve forgiven yourself for the fire.”_

_Derek scoffed, gesturing to the nearby grave. “How can I forgive myself for what I’ve done? My family is dead because of me. The choices I made cost them their lives. They’re never coming back. I don’t deserve forgiveness.”_

_Pity filled her eyes and he averted his gaze._

_He didn’t deserve that either._

_“Has anyone told you that what happened to your family— what happened to you— wasn’t your fault?”_

_The sound of his claws scraping against the wooden bench was loud in the silence of the graveyard. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to calm his racing heart._

_He was losing control. Again._

_He was eighteen years old. This was **pathetic**! Why couldn’t he control himself like all the other werewolves? Like Laura? His mother would be so disappointed in him._

_“You, my child, went through something indescribably awful. But what Kate Argent did is not on your shoulders. With or without your help, she would’ve found a way to do what she did,” Claudia said with vehemence._

_Derek shook his head. “I made it easier for her.”_

_“If it hadn’t been you, perhaps it would’ve been someone else, but you can’t obsess over ‘what if’s and you can’t change the past. What you can choose is to do right by them.”_

_“‘Do right by them’?” Derek echoed back, puzzled._

_Claudia’s hand was an unexpectedly soft and comforting weight over his. “Be honest with yourself. Would your mother be happy if she saw you now? Or would she be sad to see you in such pain?” It wasn’t said unkindly, but Derek flinched at the thought, shame rising within him.“I’m willing to bet she’d be upset to see you hurting this much. She, like any good mother, wants her children to be happy.”_

_“I don’t think I can,” Derek whispered brokenly. How could he be happy after everything he had done? How could he let himself move on and live a happy life when the rest of his family would never be afforded that same opportunity?_

_“It may take a long time until you feel like you can, but the good news is that every long journey begins with a single step,” Claudia encouraged._

_Derek swallowed past the lump in his throat. He had been wrong before. The emotion in her eyes wasn’t pity. It was empathy. A look of commiseration and compassion from a woman who truly understood what he was feeling. Because she had experienced something similar herself._

_“It’s okay if you can’t forgive yourself yet, but try and show yourself a little more kindness and patience, as often as you can. Maybe, one day, it will come as naturally to you as breathing.”_

_The first drop of wetness on his cheek startled him, and he blinked up at the sky in wonder as white specs drifted lazily downwards. It took him a moment to comprehend what was happening, since he had never seen snow before._

_He turned to Claudia in amazement, wondering if she was as shocked by the unusual weather as he was. Her eyes were closed, head tilted up as the flakes landed on her pale skin, melting and trailing wet streaks down her cheeks like tears. Like this, the stress-lines on her face softened with peace, she suddenly looked so young and beautiful; not much older than himself and much too young to be a mother of two troublesome teenagers._

_“I always did love the snow,” Claudia said._

_She reminded him of his mother, Talia, Alpha of the Hale pack. Both were reserved and refined, elegant in their beauty, while exuding an aura of power._

_As Derek studied her, he decided, without a doubt, that Jennifer had been wrong. Demon or not, there was nothing cruel about the woman next to him. The merciless, bloodthirsty woman people whispered about wasn’t Claudia’s ‘true nature’. This person, right here, was her true self: motherly and wise, content to enjoy the little things and remaining hopeful for a better future for herself and others._

_The monster she had been as a field agent wasn’t the same Claudia that was seated beside him. She was forced to be the agency’s weapon, but not anymore._

_Derek mimicked her pose, tilting his chin up to the night sky. The first touch of snowflakes on his face made him jolt. White flakes formed clumps in his eyelashes and on his nose, the latter sight making him go cross-eyed. They melted disappointingly quickly, leaving behind tiny wet spots on his skin._

_“It’s too warm to snow here.” He kept his voice quiet, afraid that if he spoke too loudly the miracle might end._

_The snowfall became heavier then, as if to ease his worry. As the large flakes poured down from the sky and blanketed the ground, it struck Derek that there was no chill in the air._

_And when the flakes melted, it felt like warmth._

_Like magic._

_Derek blinked at Claudia. “Are you…?”_

_Claudia’s eyes opened, darkness receding from them. “Without the chill of Winter, there’d be no joy of Spring. Without the cold of the snow, we wouldn’t appreciate the heat of the Summer sun. Without having experienced sorrow, how would we appreciate moments of happiness?”_

_Derek stared back, unsure of what to say, though Claudia didn’t appear bothered by his silence. His lips reluctantly twitched as he wondered how Stiles came to be so chatty and fidgety with a mother like her._

_After seconds passed, Claudia continued, “Sometimes I tell myself that to feel better about things out of my control, but in the end, my family is still dead and so is yours.” Somberly, she reached out an open palm, watching the flakes become water on her skin. “But we can make new families and memories, and perhaps, one day, we’ll both find peace within us and allow ourselves to accept our happiness without guilt.”_

_Derek’s chest ached with longing, wanting so badly for that to be true._

_“I hope so,” he rasped, peering up at the sky once more, letting the wetness of the snow conceal the evidence of his tears._

_Today had marked the second anniversary of the fire, but, for the first time after losing his family, he thought he might be able to survive the next one._

_“Not to ruin the moment, but… my son seems to be rather infatuated with you. Whatever the laws may say, I don’t approve of you two getting together until after he turns eighteen. Am I clear?” Claudia said, voice stern but not unkind._

_Derek whipped his head her direction, mouth slack with shock. Her hardened expression instantly vanished, mischievous amusement replacing it._

_Derek’s ears burned, embarrassment flooding through him as he sputtered, “I wasn’t— He’s annoying and I can’t stand— Why would you— He’s **fourteen**!” _

_Claudia burst out laughing, happy crinkles forming at the corners of her eyes. She clearly enjoyed his mortification._

_Perhaps Stiles took after her more than he’d thought afterall._

_“You should’ve seen your face, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist,” Claudia managed through her giggles. She took a calming breath and wiped at her tears, still chuckling sporadically. “He’s been talking about you non-stop and, honestly, I’m more concerned about him pressuring you into something you don’t want.”_

_Derek groaned into his hands, positive his face was strawberry-red at this point._

_“I keep rejecting him, but he won’t stop!”_

_“I’m sorry, dear. He gets that from me. Persistence is a Gajos family trait,” she said. “But, should you change your mind, I trust you will wait until you’re both mature and ready.”_

_Derek’s eyebrows skyrocketed upward, floored by the unexpected confidence in her statement. Claudia caught the doubtful expression before he could hide it._

_“Stiles is persistent, but he’s also incredibly loving. When he matures, I believe he’ll have so many admirers that he’ll have to bat them away with a stick.” She spoke with confidence, pride and fondness evident in her tone. “If you’re not one of them, that’s okay. You don’t owe anyone your affection. Though I have a hunch you’ll come to care for him.”_

_“What makes you so sure?” Derek asked skeptically._

_“I’m not. Just hopeful, I suppose. When he falls for someone, he falls deeply.”_

_Her gaze landed on a smaller tombstone a few spots down from the Hales’. The grave must not have been visited often, or possibly ever, going by the way it was shrouded with overgrown weeds. Though he could tell there were two names engraved on the stone, they were too caked with dirt to be legible._

_But their dates weren’t. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he does the mental math._

_One of the victims had barely been two months old._

_“He will love them forever and always, or for as long as they will let him.” With pain and longing evident in her eyes, she smiled wistfully at the gravestone. “That’s another Gajos trait.”_

_Sensing it was his turn to offer what little comfort he could, Derek stiltedly reached out and rested his hand on hers. It was awkward and his cheeks heated with embarrassment. He wasn’t used to interacting with others, let alone consoling them. Just as he debated withdrawing his touch, Claudia patted his hand and a flicker of a smile passed her lips._

o0o0o0o

Snow drifts down from the pale gray sky, the forest floor blanketed with a thick white layer that crunches noisily under their feet. Dawa is at the front of their small group, navigating the way to the hunter’s facility that had held her, and many others, captive.

It is an eerie feeling, returning to these woods after the events from the day before. Despite being miles from the site of the massacre, the scent of blood hangs heavy in the air, obvious to those with heightened senses, but thankfully unnoticeable by humans.

“How much farther? My legs are killing me,” Stiles whines. He hunches his shoulders and braces against a particularly strong gust of wind, expression miserable. His bare hands are shoved inside the lined pockets of his winter jacket and a soft black hat hugs his ears, but his nose and cheeks are bright red. Though he had cast a warming charm at the start of their hike, it doesn’t seem to be enough to keep him protected from long exposure to the cold.

Allison is faring better, most likely because Scott had swaddled her in his winter coat, on top of her own insulating layer, before they’d taken more than a single step out of the van.

She also had the foresight to bring a scarf and gloves, neither of which Stiles remembered to bring. Although, in his defense, they hadn’t anticipated having such a long trek through the snow and wind.

Their new driver, Billy, had ignored their requested drop-off point and left them at the very edge of the woods instead, too nervous to chance getting any closer to the hunters. After what happened to Jared on their last mission, they couldn’t blame him for his caution. At the time, none of them had had a problem with the distance. They’re used to hiking multiple miles to their mission locations, but it hadn’t taken long before Stiles had fallen behind the group, his unusual silence and sluggish movements drawing concern.

The skin under his eyes is dark, belying the exhaustion he’d argued wasn’t there when questioned. With or without heightened senses, it is easy to tell that Stiles had been lying.

“Only about a mile,” Danny’s voice is warm and comforting in their ears, a reminder that they have an extra pair of eyes watching out for them.

It is a relief to have him back, offering guidance and advice. It had been a shock when they found Lydia standing by their van that morning, handing each of them, including Dawa, CommUnits and gruffly ordering them to not get themselves killed.

It had been surprising, but also understandable, that she would want to see footage from their “mission” upon their return. With that in mind, when Derek had activated his CommUnit and placed it in his ear, the last thing he’d expected was to hear Danny’s pleasant greeting.

This isn’t an official, sanctioned mission. They aren’t supposed to have CommUnits, let alone a techie assigned to them, especially not when there is a shortage of tech assistants within the agency. It is against the company’s policy.

Then again, does the policy truly apply to the Director?

Perhaps this is Lydia’s way of extending an olive branch. Not that it makes up for her threatening to murder one of her own agents, but it is something.

Walmart soars above the trees, a bright collar around his neck embedded with another camera, allowing Danny a better view of their surroundings. Putting the collar on Walmart had been a battle in and of itself, with Stiles chasing after and man-handling his familiar as Walmart clawed at him and morphed into smoke to get away. It didn’t surprise anyone that he didn’t want to wear it.

The collar is a hideous, pink camo design bedazzled with cheap rhinestones. Stiles had to resort to begging before his familiar had caved and played dead, allowing the makeshift surveillance device to be wrapped around his neck.

During the van ride, Stiles had admitted that Walmart likely hadn’t cared about the ugly design, so much as he hadn’t wanted to wear what appears to be a repurposed dog collar from the 1990’s. Derek had winced in sympathy, glancing over to where Walmart had been in the corner, lying defeatedly with wings spread out on the dirty ground.

If Walmart had any semblance of pride, it took a brutal hit today.

“‘Only a mile’. Great. Easy for you to say when you’re sitting in a temperature-controlled room,” Stiles mutters, stuttering as his teeth chatter. Derek shrugs off his jacket, wordlessly draping the warmth of it across Stiles’ quivering shoulders.

Stiles gapes at him, his brown eyes wide with awe. Embarrassment and delight saturates his scent, like he’s pleasantly flustered by the unexpected gesture. Derek marvels at the sight of Stiles looking shy and unsure, a hint of a smile on his lips.

As a teenager with anger issues the size of Texas, Derek had relished in his ability to shake Stiles’ composure and hurt him, even though the effects never seemed to last long and Stiles would always come back as though it’d never happened. It was like a game to Derek, one he’d tolerated, even reluctantly enjoyed sometimes. He had always thought the rush he felt from ruffling Stiles’ feathers was because he liked winning, had liked seeing Stiles scramble off in embarrassment.

Never, not once, had it occurred to him that he might like making Stiles feel flustered simply because he _liked_ him and enjoyed being the one who could effortlessly throw him off balance.

Derek can admit now that his act of generosity isn’t as selfless as it seems. His pulse quickens at the thought of Stiles’ happiness seeping into the layers of his jacket, creating an enticing smell of their combined scents. He understands now how much better it is to have Stiles’ flushed cheeks and smile directed at him in happy surprise instead of hurt or shame.

Stiles pulls the coat tighter around himself, the smell of his joy becoming thick enough to draw the others’ attention. Despite the multiple pairs of eyes on them, Derek can’t be bothered to look away. Stiles’ eyes are closed, his nose pressed against the jacket’s collar, his forehead free of stress lines.

He looks _happy_.

In a way Derek hasn’t seen in a long time. In a way he never thought he’d see again.

Derek’s heartbeat drums loudly as he’s faced with the reminder that Stiles loves him. It leaves him feeling just as off-kilter as it had the night before. No matter how long he dwells on the thought, it doesn’t make sense.

He hadn’t slept much last night, having spent most of the late hours staring up at his ceiling and replaying the events of Lydia’s office, of Stiles’ confession.

Stiles loves him.

Stiles _loves_ him. Truly loves him for who he is, not to manipulate him or because he expects something in return. By his own admittance, he hadn’t thought his confession would make a difference for Derek.

It did.

The more Derek had considered a future in which the two of them were together, the more captivated he had become. Would they have a future in the Outside, or would they remain at the agency? If they leave, would they buy a house in the suburbs or in a more secluded area? Would they have a large pack or a small one? What would their holiday celebrations be like? Would they own any pets? Would they have children, or would they prefer to keep their family small?

Then came the questions of the logistics of it all. What would they do about Walmart? What if Stiles lost control of his demon side again? How would they escape the agency, if that’s what Stiles wants? Who would they bring with them? Who would they leave behind?

Question after question had flowed through him. His mind had been stuck on the endless loop of possibilities, and kept him awake and alert until the early morning.

He knows he can’t possibly peek into the future, to see what it holds for them, but he at least has an answer to the important question: does he want a future with Stiles?

He does.

Without a hint of doubt, he knows he wants that, and though he may not know what they are right now, since they hadn’t had the chance to define it, they are _something_.

That is enough for now.

“We’re almost there, guys,” Danny encourages.

As they take another step forward, the air shimmers and shines. Colors morph and change as though they were looking at the surface of a bubble. Or a magical barrier.

There is an ominous feeling in his gut urging him to back away, a desire to get as far from this boundary as he can. He fights against it.

Stiles hums and leans in to inspect the barrier. He backs up a step, scanning the trees. Derek follows his line of sight, noticing unfamiliar symbols— like a foreign language with harsh, stiff lines and jagged ends— burned into tree trunks.

That can’t be a good sign.

“What is it?” Derek asks, dubiously eyeing the barrier.

“A cloaking spell,” Danny and Stiles answer simultaneously.

“It’s to keep the facility hidden and prevent Supernaturals from entering,” Danny continues.

That doesn’t sound that bad.

“Or to keep something in,” Stiles says with more cheer than the dark thought deserves. Derek’s eyes snap towards him. Keep something in? What does that mean exactly? “Stay here.”

Before anyone can protest, Stiles confidently steps into the shimmering air. Between one blink and the next, he’s vanished.

Logically, he knows that Stiles is a magic user, able to comprehend the intricacies of spells and discern the intent behind them. If he’s unbothered by the barrier, that means it _probably_ poses no danger to himself. But Derek isn’t a witch; he’s an alpha werewolf, and the thought of Stiles walking through an unknown boundary, alone on the other side without knowing what he might be facing, is a test of his self-control. He fails, horrendously.

Derek snarls. His claws pop and face shifts. He tries to follow, but howls as waves of electricity flow through his body, sparks flying at every point of contact between himself and the barrier. His muscles seize painfully and he slams into the ground. He's left gasping and shaking until the torture ends.

Scott looks between him and the barrier, eyes wide with curiosity. He raises a finger and reaches towards the barrier. Allison slaps his hand down with a ‘what the hell are you doing?’ expression. He smiles sheepishly.

“The barrier shook, did one of you try to follow me?” Stiles asks, tone noticeably flat and unimpressed even through the distortion of the ear buds.

“It seems you need to train your dogs better,” Dawa says. “Especially one in particular.”

Derek rolls onto his elbows, sweating and panting, but still coherent enough to bare his fangs at her.

He doesn’t know what Stiles sees in her. He practically has hearts in his eyes whenever they’re talking and acts like every word out of her mouth is coated in gold. It’s ridiculous.

It is beyond ridiculous, it is embarrassing.

Derek is embarrassed _for_ Stiles, because he is smitten with Dawa for no good reason and acting like she is some amazing person. She is an _asshole_.

…Which is apparently Stiles’ type.

Stiles snorts. There’s a faint humming noise in the background, low and deep, though it doesn’t seem to concern him.

“Was it Scott?”

“Hey!” Scott protests, as if he has a right to be offended by the accusation. He’d tried to touch the barrier _after_ seeing what it had done to Derek.

“It wasn’t Scott,” Allison answers, eyes glinting down at Derek with amusement.

The barrier blinks out of existence, revealing an obviously unharmed Stiles standing only feet away. He glances down with charcoal eyes at where Derek rests in the snow, the cold wetness a welcome sensation against his aching muscles.

“Seriously?” Stiles’ lips split on a teasing grin. “What, was thirty seconds of separation too difficult to handle? You missed me too much?”

Derek rises to his feet without bothering to wipe the snow off his body. His ears burn at the mocking and he bares his teeth, standing tall with as much dignity as he could muster.

Which, needless to say, isn’t much.

“Wow. Not even denying it. You must really like me, huh.” Stiles whistles, bursting into laughter when Derek’s face darkens. “Aw, don’t look like such a sourwolf. I’m flattered, honestly.”

He cooes and pinches Derek’s cheeks, like he’s some old lady seeing her grandson after a long time apart. Derek seriously questions his sexual attraction to this man. He grunts and shoves Stiles away, accidentally using more force than necessary going by the way Stiles gasps and teeters, arms windmilling comically like he’s in a cartoon as he loses his balance. Before he hits the snow, Derek grips him by his outer coat and steadies him with a guilty look.

Stiles’ smile intensifies, as if Derek had only proved his point even more.

“Hey, Danny, how’s the path to the facility looking?” Scott asks, shooting Derek a chastising look as though their antics were unprofessional and embarrassing. Derek doesn’t necessarily disagree, but he’s feeling too light and floaty to care. Scott has no right to throw rocks from his very thin and very breakable glass house.

The edges of Derek’s lips tug upwards in a reluctant smile when Stiles exaggeratedly rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out at his best friend. Scott snorts and flicks him off, laughing when Allison gasps and smacks his arm.

“Behave, you two,” she scolds through her own smile.

“I don’t know. Walmart isn’t responding to any of my requests for visuals,” Danny grouches, as though he had expected nothing but pure cooperation from the blackbird. Clearly he hasn’t spent enough time around Walmart.

“Can you tell where he is?” Stiles questions. There is a quality to his voice that causes the hairs on the nape of Derek’s neck to raise in alarm.

The niggling sensation of wrongness only grows at Danny’s confused reply of, “I think he’s behind you. In the trees somewhere. He’s looking right at you, Stiles.”

Four pairs of eyes lock onto the familiar. He is remarkably easy to find when he wants to be seen.

An all-too-familiar human body is bound to the middle of a tree with black rope, pinned in place high above the ground. He’s wearing a familiar blue and gray uniform, but the skin above his jacket collar abruptly ends in a jagged, bloody line.

Even like this, his throat sliced open and headless, Stiles’ figure is recognizable.

His head rests at the base of the tree, lying in a frozen circle of blood. Black, inky blood. His skin is hauntingly pale, lips blue, eyes startlingly wide and _dead_.

Derek’s stomach rolls and he turns away, too upset to handle looking at it any longer.

Allison’s voice is strained as she chokes out, “ _Stiles_ , oh my god!”

“Dude,” Scott whispers. His lips purse in disapproval.

But Stiles…

He laughs.

“I know I’m supposed to be reprimanding you, because we agreed on no more shenanigans on missions, but _dude!_ You haven’t killed me in weeks. I was starting to worry.” To Derek’s horror, he picks up the severed head, grinning as he holds it up next to his for comparison. “It’s a pretty good replica too. I gotta admit, your colored scenes are much more eerie than the all-black ones were.”

At the matching looks of disgust being aimed his way, Stiles shrugs and lowers the decapitated head to inspect the details.

His palms and forearms stain with inky black and Stiles frowns, his scent souring with the first hints of anxiety. “You do know my blood is red though, right?”

It’s apparently the wrong thing to say.

Stiles yelps, dropping the head when black blood bubbles around the lower line of the now-demon-like eyes. Small jet black rivers flow down his deathly white skin. Blue-tinted lips crack open, widening little by little. Like a dam being lowered, black blood rushes from his mouth and onto the snow like a waterfall.

To call it ‘disturbing’ is an understatement. Derek fights the urge to flee and steps forward, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Despite Stiles’ calm facade from moments before, his body trembles under Derek’s palm, his fear almost tangible at such a close proximity.

He hadn’t wanted them to worry before, that much is clear, but his anxiety and uncertainty is too much for him to keep hidden.

“What the hell is that?!” Danny’s voice startles Stiles into action and he pulls away from Derek’s touch. Derek studies him, the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness in his smile as he eyes the group.

“Nothing, nothing. We should start heading over to the building while we still have sunlight,” Stiles dismisses, shoving his still-quaking hands into his jacket pockets and striding towards the faint smoke in the distance.

The knot in Derek’s stomach tightens. He’s never seen Stiles so visibly shaken by his familiar’s actions before. Annoyed, angry, and embarrassed, but not this.

Not _scared_.

Derek peers up at Walmart, who’s now observing them from his perch on a low branch, a blackbird once again. The body, blood, and severed head are all gone.

Walmart’s eyes flit downwards and meet his own. A shiver runs through him. He’s never looked at the familiar this closely before, not wanting to acknowledge the strange creature or feed into its apparent need for attention. Though he can’t say he’s ever really thought about it, he’s both taken aback and unsettled by the intelligence in the beady eyes staring back at him.

How much is he cognizant of, if at all? Does he know about the threats made against him? Does the idea of him dying scare him as much as it does Stiles? Does he comprehend what death is? Does he fear it?

Can he feel scared?

Can he feel _anything?_

Soundlessly, Walmart averts his gaze, flaps his wings, and takes off.

He may be the one flying free, but Derek’s the one left feeling unmoored.

o0o0o0o

_The air was thick with hot smoke and ash, burning Derek’s throat with every inhale. Smoke billowed up into the sky, blocking the stars from view. Tears streaked down his face as he sobbed in Laura’s arms, unable to feel the comfort she was offering._

_The two of them watched in horror as their home burned down before them._

_No, not just their home. Their family._

_Their mom and dad. Their brothers and sisters. Cousins. Aunt and Uncle._

_**Everyone**._

_At only sixteen years old, they were orphans._

_They were alone now, and would be for the rest of their lives._

_Cutting through the suffocating odor of his family’s burned bodies was the scent of Kate Argent’s perfume. It was then Derek knew. He knew._

_Derek howled his loss, throat sore from the smoke and the force of his pain. He collapsed onto his knees in the dirt, wishing his agony would give way to numbness._

_He did this to them. He killed them. He fell in love with a hunter, fell for her lies and her pretty smile, and his family died because of it._

_Because of him._

_Laura followed him down, murmuring reassurances through trembling lips, but the words didn’t register. Derek wallowed in self-blame, resolving to never love again. The saying, “It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never have loved at all” was wrong. So, indescribably wrong. It felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and he was certain that anything would be better than this, even death._

_Laura gasped and Derek peered up at her, flinching when her eyes burned red. She released a broken whine and whipped her head towards the house with a look of stunned disbelief._

_She was the alpha now, the position of power passed onto her after the death of their alpha._

_Their mother, Talia Hale, was dead, and Derek wished he were too._

_Laura pushed clenched fists against her eyes and sobbed._

o0o0o0o

They are only minutes away from reaching the facility when an alarm wails. It is an eerie sound, each wail long in duration and deep in pitch. It reminds Derek of an emergency siren, but worse. Like it warned of the end of the world.

Over the past seven years of missions, he’s been shot, tortured, and poisoned on multiple occasions. He’s killed hundreds and has seen the aftermath of hunters running free, massacring innocent supernaturals in return. He’s lost count of how many times he’s come close to dying, and how many dead bodies he’s seen.

As awful as those experiences were, none of them came close to unsettling him the way that siren does. Wherever that siren is coming from, Derek doesn’t want to go near it.

Dawa doesn’t feel the same.

She determinedly rushes towards the sound, her resolve unwavering despite the others’ protests. Derek swears under his breath as they’re forced to follow her, shoving tangled branches out of their faces and stepping over fallen trees and the uneven snow-covered terrain. The sound of the siren grows louder and louder, the low tone of each cutting through Derek’s core, chilling him to the bone and raising goosebumps on his skin.

When they reach the source of the sound, Derek’s eyes _burn_ and he’s not sure if he’s more horrified or sorrowful at what they find. The wails are loud enough to shake the ground beneath their feet, but it’s not the sound of an alarm going off.

It’s a creature, but not like anything Derek’s ever seen before. Like a nightmare pulled from the mind of Walmart, it’s grotesque.

It’s the size of an elephant and has a trunk protruding from its face like one too, but that’s the extent of the similarities. Its spindly legs are too thin and broken to hold it up, so it lies uselessly on its stomach on the ground. Various human and animal-like limbs protrude from its body, some of them twitching as its stomach expands on a breath.

Its trunk lifts, revealing an orifice with sharp needle-like teeth. It releases another haunting wail, but it no longer sends shockwaves of fear through Derek. Instead, he feels the force behind the sound, the misery and anguish.

When the noise ends, its leaves a hollow sensation behind.

Dawa’s expression is broken open, looking so tortured that he could almost believe the sound had come from her if he hadn’t seen differently.

“What is that?” Scott asks, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His tone is dripping with disgust; not at the creature, but at what has been done to it.

“An abomination,” Stiles answers lowly.

“An experiment gone wrong,” Allison explains. She’s turned away from the creature, too upset to continue looking at it. “They’ve been conducting experiments on creatures. This one is… an unfortunate result.”

Stiles shares a knowing look with Derek. This wasn’t a mistake, letting this creature live, forcing it to continue to exist if only to wallow and suffer in its misery, was an act of cruelty beyond comprehension.

“What are they trying to do? Create new creatures of their own?” Derek questions.

“I don’t know.” Her heart doesn’t skip. It’s the truth. “I knew they were running tests and experiments, but nothing like this. I’m not sure what this is.” She wraps her arms around herself, a feeble attempt to self-comfort as she glances back at the monstrosity.

Allison’s last recon mission with the hunters had been a little less than a month ago, so this type of experimentation must be a new development. The thought that the hunters might continue to make more of this… _thing_ … is sickening and terrifying all at once.

If they hadn’t brought Cora back with them, would this have been her fate?

Was it Laura’s?

“We should tell Lydia,” Danny advises. Stiles’ face goes pinched at the mention of their director.

“I will.” Allison studies Dawa’s tense figure with concern. “Dawa, are you…” The question hangs, as if she can’t bring herself to ask if she’s alright. The answer is obvious.

None of them are alright.

This is a nightmare brought to life.

The creature releases a heavy breath, like a sigh, and lowers its head to rest on the snowy ground.

Dawa steps towards it, seemingly unconcerned with everyone’s eyes watching her intently. Without a hint of fear, she extends a hand towards the creature.

She doesn’t know how dangerous it could be, she doesn’t know if a simple touch would startle it into attacking. It’s an unnecessary danger that she’s putting herself in, putting _all of them_ in.

Derek lurches forward to stop her, but a gentle hand on his arm gives him pause. Stiles shakes his head. Brown eyes are filled with grief and an understanding that Derek doesn’t comprehend.

When he turns back, Dawa is petting the creature, murmuring quiet reassurances. The creature blinks and tilts its head towards her. Its eyes are milky white.

Blind.

Dawa clears her throat, drawing Derek’s attention. Her distress is pungent in the air and her voice trembles as she speaks, but she doesn’t stop caressing the creature. Her touch is likely the only kindness it has experienced since the hunters.

“Yetis have a… specific cry for when they are lonely. Or calling out for their loved ones.” Tremors wrack Dawa’s entire body like she’s desperately trying to fight the urge to crumple to the ground. Derek’s eyes fall shut, his stomach sinking, bracing himself with the knowledge of what’s to come.

“I would recognize his anywhere.”

How devastating it must be for her, to be reunited with her love this way. What if it had been Derek? What if he had found Stiles like this, mutated into something barely recognizable and in visible agony? He’s not sure he’d be able to remain standing with the weight of his grief. It is a testament to Dawa’s strength that she’s still fighting for control, her eyes flickering red as she denies her shift.

Stiles’ fingers dig craters into Derek’s bicep. At the pressure, Derek opens his eyes and covers his hand with his own. It’s not much of a comfort for either of them.

The creature whines and its trunk bumps lightly against Dawa’s lower back. Red drains from eyes.

“I am here, Tsering, my love, shhh, I am here. Quiet now.” Dawa brushes gentle fingers by its ears and the whining stops. Its trunk lowers to the ground, as though it was too heavy to keep elevated. “I am so sorry for what has happened to you.”

Derek swallows past the lump in his throat, his hands tingling and eyes stinging.

“I am so sorry I was too late to save you.”

The sharp tang of salt hits the air as Dawa’s hardened facade cracks and shatters. She breaks down, vulnerable in front of too many eyes, tears tumbling down as she sobs. She falls to her knees, face pressed against the creature— her husband’s— skin.

Derek turns away, offering a little semblance of privacy that isn’t really there. Stiles’ hand falls from his arm and he remains rooted to the spot, looking as though he desperately wants to comfort her. To fix this.

But nothing he could offer would help. No amount of magic would fix this. No hugs or gentle words would ease the heartbreak she’s going through.

Allison’s facing the trees, shoulders and chin quivering as she covers her ears to block out Dawa’s cries. It doesn’t seem to help. Scott, unable to handle the overwhelming stench of misery, mumbles an apology and briskly escapes for some fresh air.

“How could they do this?” Stiles grinds out, to no one and everyone.

“They believe that what they’re doing is the right thing; that the ends justify the means.” Allison lowers her arms and crosses them over her chest, hands gripping at opposite arms in a recognizable gesture of self-comfort. Her tone is flat. Deadened. “They would say that this was an experiment gone wrong, awfully wrong, but the end result would be worth the sacrifice.”

“Is it?” Derek questions. “Is this worth what they’re trying to accomplish?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, though her fingers dig into her triceps and her weighted frown screams of doubt. She, like the rest of them, smells of distress and unhappiness, burdened by the knowledge of what the hunters were capable of.

How many had been sacrificed to create this abomination? And for what purpose? What could possibly justify cruelty like this?

Danny’s voice crackles through their earpieces, his voice unusually timid. “I hate to be ‘that guy’, but our time here is limited.”

Although he agrees, Derek frowns at the thought of interrupting Dawa’s mourning. They have all lost loved ones. They recognize the importance of taking time to grieve and process; and the rarity of having the opportunity to say goodbye.

“Scott and I can look for a way inside. I know where most of the hidden entrances are,” Allison volunteers. Her sympathetic brown eyes shift between Stiles, Derek, and Dawa. “I’ll let you guys know when we’re in.”

“Sounds good,” Derek says.

Allison offers them a tight-lipped smile and follows Scott’s footsteps.

Derek and Stiles settle down for a wait, leaning back against the cold bark of the tree trunk. It feels like hours that they stay there, keeping watch over Dawa and waiting for Danny’s call. In reality, it couldn’t have been more than a half hour.

When Danny’s soft voice sounds in their ears, it’s a welcome disturbance to the somber mood.

“We can come back for you,” Derek offers when Dawa rises with them.

She shakes her head, eyes and shoulders set with resolve. In one fluid motion, she grows and morphs into her yeti form until she’s large and looming over the unfortunate amalgamation. Swollen white and blue hands reach out to cradle the creature’s face. Despite their massive size, her hands are gentle.

Like violent crack of thunder, the snap of its neck echoes through the silent, snowy field. The creature sags in her grip, falling limp against the frozen ground. Dawa’s fur-covered chest heaves with heavy breaths. A wail of longing and _hurt_ bursts from her lungs like a siren announcing the end of the world. Dawa’s world.

Snow tumbles from the branches of shaking trees. Derek feels Stiles’ flinch, sees the pained lines carved into his features as he shuts his eyes against the powerful cry of sorrow.

It is more than he can bear.

Derek looks away, his dry throat clicking as he swallows. The sound hits too close to home, the memory of his own tortured howl of loss rising too close to the surface.

Silence falls.

Snow crunches as the sound of light footsteps near. Dawa, human once more, stands before them with an expression void of emotion. Her eyes are red and puffy, but there’s a disturbing hollowness to her where there once was vivacity, like all of her sharp edges and corners had been sanded down into soft bends.

“You don’t have to come with us,” Stiles says.

Dawa’s gaze sharpens, harsh and cold in a way Claudia’s never was. Derek presses a comforting hand against Stiles’ lower back when he subconsciously leans into Derek’s space.

“We will rescue the others. And then we will burn this place down.”

Moving with ease through the thick snow, Dawa heads in the direction of the hunter’s facility.

Once-gentle flurries of snow grow heavy, building into a blizzard with the help of sudden winds that whip around the massive flakes. Both temperature and visibility lowers, and Derek frowns with concern as Stiles clutches his jacket closer to himself, shivering. Within moments the creature’s corpse, and anything more than a few feet away, disappears.

The snowflakes melt on Derek’s heated skin. The cool water and a sense of dread settle in his bones, chilling him from the inside out.

If this abomination was outside the hunter’s facility, what horrors would they face _inside_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING NOTES:** (SPOILERS AHEAD) 1. They say “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery”, so Walmart shifts into Stiles. Er, a decapitated version of him. Stiles critiques his work and Walmart (as the severed head) cries many tears (black blood) because he’s sensitive to constructive criticism. hE’S WEIrd. HE’s a WEirDO. NOBODY UNDERSTANDS HIM, OKAY? 2. The group discovers that the hunters are experimenting on supernatural creatures. One of Dawa’s husbands is one of the victims. He, along with other shifters, has been transmutated into a horrifying amalgamation and severely deformed creature. (You ever see people tear gummy bears into pieces and then stick them together to form some fucked up franken-gummy? It’s kinda like that). In an act of mercy, Dawa kills it/him.
> 
> Um... happy new year?
> 
> I wasn't going to post today, but then I was like, "Eh, why not?" which is pretty much my motivation for most things these days. So, leave me a comment maybe? Because why not? ;)
> 
> For updates on TSiOB, to message me, or to support me: Follow me [here](http://teenshmolf.tumblr.com/tagged/update)


	13. Revelations (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE! Thank you all for being patient! Chapter 13 was taking me forever to finish, so I had to make the decision to split this chapter into two (again). Oops. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this 10k chapter :)
> 
> Chapter Warning: Homophobic and crude language.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'ed. Let me know if there are any glaring mistakes that need fixing.

_Stiles sat at the empty cafeteria table, a spell-book resting beside his barely-touched plate. He stabbed absently at the bland meal, pretending he didn’t feel the weight of judgmental eyes on him analyzing his every movement._

_Being watched was nothing new. Agents loved to gawk at the ‘strange witches’ in their midst, but suffering it alone never seemed to get easier. It had been tolerable when he’d had Heather by his side to keep him distracted, but she’d stopped spending time with him a while ago._

_A long while ago._

_As much as it hurt to be abandoned, he understood. He had initiated the space between them by becoming a hermit and holing himself up in his room for a year. Despite her attempts, they’d barely talked at all during that time._

_He shouldn’t have expected her to be there, waiting with a smile and open arms, when he’d finally decided to re-integrate himself into the agency. If he hadn’t expected it, perhaps it wouldn’t have hurt so much when he realized she hadn’t patiently awaited his return to normalcy._

_Now, over half a year later, they still only saw each other in passing. It was like there was an invisible barrier between them. He could see her, could see the way she had moved on without him. Her magic had grown strong, and she’d obviously found her niche. Every time he’d seen her, she was bringing strange creatures to life— hybrid beings that had, until then, existed only in her mind’s eye— to keep her company and decorating hallways with bright, lively graffiti with nothing more than a smirk and a whispered phrase._

_She had survived the loss of their mother, survived the immeasurable grief and mourning, survived celebrating holidays and performing rituals. And she’d survived that alone, because her brother had abandoned her. He had vanished to selfishly wallow in his despair, when he was the only person who could have understood her pain._

_While it hurt to see her in the hallways over a year and a half later, distant and like a stranger to him, he respected the space between them. It was his fault it was there._

_It was his fault that there was nothing left of the Gajos family but two strangers and bitter feelings._

_All of it was his fault. So he wasn’t going to complain._

_He wasn’t._

_He could handle being alone and stared at like an exhibit at a zoo. He was doing alright and had been navigating the loneliness just fine. He didn’t need anything else._

_Really. He was fine._

_He wasn’t that lonely anyway. He had TV shows and movies, and books. And he had a social life. He had friends._

_Or, well, acquaintances._

_…Okay, he only really talked to his teachers and other witches. So what?_

_And the witches might’ve been dead ones, but they still counted._

_Stiles gripped his pen tightly, scribbling harshly on the book’s leather cover._

_“Mind if I sit here?”_

_Stiles startled at the voice, reflexively dropping the pen and shoving the book away from himself._

_A stranger stood across the table. He had tan skin, friendly brown eyes, and shaggy dark-brown hair. His jawline was noticeably off-center, much like his wide, disarming grin. He looked to be about sixteen, which would make them the same age._

_Stiles gaped at him. He must’ve been new to the agency, to be brazen enough to approach a witch, let alone voluntarily ask to spend time with one. Or, perhaps he was dumb as a rock, having no idea that he was speaking with a witch._

_Based on his goofy grin, Stiles was starting to suspect it was the latter scenario._

_After the silence dragged out for a few moments past awkward, the teenager’s grin began to droop and his posture lost some of its confidence._

_“Or, uh, not? I could find somewhere else…”_

_“No! It’s cool. You can sit here. I was just…” surprised. Stiles aimed a swift kick at the chair across from him, sending it careening backwards. It loudly protested the movement, screeching unpleasantly against the polished floors. “You can sit. Here. With me. It’s cool. Totally cool,” Stiles babbled._

_Somehow, the stranger didn’t seem to mind or care about Stiles’ excited awkwardness. Instead, he plopped down into the seat and beamed back at Stiles with equal excitement. His smile was wide and kind, radiating warmth and friendliness._

_It was overwhelming to look at, like Stiles had finally made his way out of dark cave to look up and see the sun peering down at him from overhead._

_There had only ever been one other person who had looked at him like that, like he was something **good**. _

_And it had been a long time since a look of such genuine happiness was directed towards him._

_A little over a year and a half, to be exact._

_Like a shriveled plant desperately craving the warmth of sunlight, he leaned forward, captivated by this stranger. He wanted to enjoy this moment before it inevitably ended. It wouldn’t be long before the teen figured out who— or what— he was talking to._

_“I’m Scott.” The teen— Scott— spoke through chubby cheeks filled with food. He was practically inhaling his meal, as if he hadn’t eaten in days._

_Stiles didn’t mind at all. This was the only company he’d had outside of his lectures in months. A lack of manners wasn’t going to make him any less grateful._

_“Stiles. So. Um. Why are you here? I mean— What, uh, do you do? Here. At the agency.” Stiles groaned internally, but kept his face neutral as to hide his mortification. It was painfully apparent that his social skills were severely lacking, rusty from disuse._

_If Scott picked up on his embarrassment, he didn’t say anything about it. “Director Martin said I’ll be assisting in the infirmary. I had orientation today and start tomorrow.”_

_“Cool. With Deaton?”_

_“Yeah, and my mom. She’s a nurse. We came here together.”_

_“How’d you end up here?”_

_“Uh, my dad,” Scott answered hesitantly, shoulders hunching like he was uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation._

_Naturally, Stiles bulldozed onward._

_“Is he here too?” he asked, curious. Scott had only mentioned coming here with his mom, hadn’t he?_

_“No.” Scott’s lips twisted sourly._

_Stiles felt a pang of regret for asking and mumbled, “Sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.”_

_“It’s fine. But we ran away. From him. He’s not a nice guy.” Scott frowned and hunched down further, like he was waiting for Stiles to ask more invasive questions, poking and prodding at what obviously was a sore subject for him._

_Let it be known that Stiles Stilinski could, occasionally, take a hint._

_“Ah. Well, good luck with Deaton. He’s cryptic at best, an asshole at worst. He can be funny once in a while though, if you can get him to pull the giant stick out of his ass.”_

_“Oh.” Scott stared, looking thrown, but not displeased, by the topic change. “Thanks for the heads up,” he said absently, his eyes focused on the corner of the table where Stiles’ spell-book sat. He gestured at it with a fork. “Whatcha reading?”_

_“A spell-book,” Stiles admitted after a moment of hesitation. He wasn’t ready for the conversation to end, for Scott to find out he was a witch and run away in terror. But it was better this way. The sooner Scott found out, the quicker he could reject him._

_There was no point in getting his hopes up and pretending that this friendly interaction would be anything more than brief._

_Except that didn’t happen._

_Scott didn’t appear disgusted by the new information. His expression didn’t change at all, although his eyes seemed to glint with a hint of curiosity._

_“Sweet, dude. What language is that? I can’t read the title. It looks like Italian. Is it Italian?”_

_It looked absolutely nothing like Italian, but Stiles didn’t need to point that out._

_“Nope. It’s the Old Language.”_

_“Oh, like Latin?”_

_Stiles huffed, his lips tugging up into a smile. It was brief, there and gone in a few seconds. His facial muscles twitched uncomfortably, unused to the expression after so long._

_“No, not like Latin. It’s the language that long-dead witches write in. They use it to posthumously write books and communicate with still-living witches. If you understand the Old Language, you can talk to them by touching the letters.”_

_Scott’s jaw went slack as he leaned forward to inspect the book more closely. “That’s so cool! If they’re dead, can they see into the future? What’s the afterlife like? Is heaven real?”_

_Stiles laughed, for the first time since Claudia’s disappearance. “They don’t talk about the afterlife much. They wouldn’t know if heaven’s real or not. They’re writing from a place that’s basically Purgatory. Once they feel like they’ve said all they needed to say, they move on to the next place. Wherever that may be.”_

_“What kind of things do they usually talk about then?”_

_“Mostly they ramble about how stupid living people are and how we’re all sinners and going to die. Sometimes they recite passages from various religious texts. Oh, and they love to shout at me for being a deviant and all that. As if wanting to kiss dudes is somehow worse than being taught how to cut someone’s arteries so they bleed out.”_

_Scott’s expression soured. “I forgot they taught that kind of stuff here. It sounds intense.”_

_Stiles shrugged. “It is. But I’m probably not going to be a field agent anyway, so it’s not like I’ll ever actually do that.”_

_“What do you want to do here?”_

_“I…” **want to leave.**_

_The thought was brief, but powerful, shaking Stiles to his core. His posture straightened, muscles tensed and back rigid. There was something about the thought that wasn’t right. It was an eerie, discomfiting feeling of familiarity. Like deja vu._

_Like a memory, long buried beneath the surface of his skin, and starting to itch._

_Stiles’ eyes widened and his throat grew tight with panic at the notion of leaving._

_Where had that come from?_

_Why would he think that, even for a moment?_

_He had never, not once, considered leaving after his mom disappeared. What was the point? There was no hope for him in the Outside. If he left—_

_“Stiles?”_

_Stiles’ eyes adjusted back into focus to find Scott staring at him in concern._

_What had they been talking about?_

_“Sorry, what was the question?” Stiles asked, cheeks heating as he rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment._

_“I asked what you wanted to do here,” Scott repeated, concern etched in the lines around his mouth._

_“Hmmm. I’d like to make potions, maybe. Stuff that Deaton can use to help treat wounds and illnesses. We don’t have anything near the medicine the Outside does.”_

_“You don’t want to be an artist?”_

_“What,” Stiles said flatly._

_Scott pointed to the graffiti drawn on the spell-book’s cover, just below the title. “Is that a dick?”_

_Stiles grinned sheepishly. He couldn’t deny that he’d drawn the crudely sketched penis, since he had been in the middle of adding extra details to it when Scott appeared. He’d been caught red-handed._

_“…It appears to be one, yes.” Stiles said. “It might also be a rocket ship.”_

_Scott spared the drawing another glance. “It’s definitely a dick.”_

_“Art is up to interpretation.”_

_“A dick. That you drew.”_

_Stiles’ eyes narrowed. “Is that an accusation?”_

_“Observation,” Scott tossed back, grinning._

_Stiles smirked. “Eye-witness accounts are notoriously unreliable.”_

_“You signed your name underneath it.”_

_Stiles’ smug grin faltered. Shit. He had, hadn’t he?_

_“And I saw you drawing it,” Scott added._

_“That depends on how you define ‘drawing’.”_

_Scott’s eyebrows raised and then furrowed, apparently at a loss at how to respond to that. “Uh… It’s like… doodling?”_

_“That’s a synonym,” Stiles pointed out. With clear confusion, Scott’s brows pulled together even more, his sad doe-like eyes forcing Stiles’ facade to crumble. Stiles released a heavy sigh and raised two hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, fine. You got me. I did it. I’m the dastardly dick doodler.”_

_“The what?” Scott said on a laugh. “That sounds like the nickname for a convicted ped—”_

_“—But, in my defense...” Stiles raised his voice to drown out Scott’s inappropriate, and completely unfounded, remark. “...he said I should be burned at the stake for ‘my perversions’. And—”_

_“Wait, what?”_

_“—honestly, you’d think witches would be more open-minded, considering their own circumstances.”_

_Scott waved a hand, pulling Stiles’ attention back to him. “Who said you should be burned? I’m lost.”_

_“George,” Stiles said, enunciating slowly as though the answer were obvious. Because it was._

_“George…?” Scott echoed back, equally slowly._

_Stiles gestured to the book. “The author.”_

_“Oh, okay. Got it. Continue.”_

_“That was the end of my explanation.”_

_Scott frowned. “So, George, who’s a witch—”_

_“—A dead witch.”_

_“—A dead witch,” Scott amended, “insulted you, and you drew a dick on the cover of his book in revenge.”_

_Stiles made a noise of disagreement._

_“I prefer to call it an act of justice,” he said._

_“Of course,” Scott politely agreed. He fell silent, probably considering whether or not he wanted to spend time with a guy who drew detailed penises on the covers of incredibly rare and priceless books._

_“Is George religious?” Scott abruptly asked._

_“He was a pastor.”_

_Scott nodded and, seemingly coming to a conclusion, reached for Stiles’ pen with a mischievous smile. “Have you tried drawing an uncircumcised one? I bet that would be extra upsetting.”_

_Stiles grinned, his shoulders sagging with relief. “I like the way you think.”_

_“And add some more hair too. Like, a crazy amount of pubic hair. Maybe a prominent vein and some warts.”_

_“Warts?”_

_Scott shot him a dark look. “You don’t get to work in healthcare without seeing some nasty things, okay? Here, like this…” He scribbled his own additions to the artwork as Stiles leaned in, murmuring encouragements and words of approval._

_“Add another wart at the tip,” Stiles suggested in a moment of brilliance. “It’ll be like a witch’s wart, but on the tip of his dick instead of his nose.”_

_Scott enthusiastically agreed and, as the two of them grinned at each other, sniggering over their childish antics, Stiles knew, with absolute certainty, that they were going to be best friends for life._

o0o0o0o

It turns out breaking into the hunters’ building isn’t as difficult as he’d anticipated. The building itself shimmers and shines with specs of black and silver— a telling sign that the stone structure infused with mountain ash. While the hunters clearly wanted to protect their den against any hostile supernatural creatures, there’s a glaring hole in its defenses.

Stiles scans the building with a calculated gaze. They couldn’t be this stupid. This naive.

He tugs off a glove and reaches out, caressing the building’s rough frame. His magic surges underneath his skin, unaffected and undeterred by the ash’s presence.

There’s no iron. Not even a hint of it in the building’s framework. The hunters, whose traditions and knowledge had been passed down for generations, had warded the building from supernatural creatures, excluding one major group.

They hadn’t warded against magic.

He swiftly shrugs off his jackets and rolls up his sleeves. He pauses, fingers halting at the edge of the fabric as he mentally reviews exactly what he’s about to do. It’s a technique he’s only read about in books, but never put to use before. It didn’t seem like it’d be out of the range of his magical abilities, but…

Stiles frowns at the realization that he’s probably going to need more space. And less clothes. With hands placed on hips, he turns to eye his team.

“Turn around,” he orders with a twirl of his finger.

Scott, the good bro that he is, unquestioningly swivels around to face the other direction. He’s learned to heed Stiles’ warnings, after not listening too many times, resulting in embarrassing incidents neither of them talk about.

The others hesitantly follow Scott’s lead, each of them reluctantly turning their backs to him.

“Can you get us inside?” Derek asks, breath visible in the chilly air even as he faces away.

“If you guys stay turned around,” Stiles quips.

“And we are doing this… why exactly?” Dawa asks, tone unimpressed. She’s been increasingly tense and agitated, impatient to get inside the hunter’s den. Not that Stiles can fault her for that. She had mercy-killed her husband less than an hour ago. That would make anyone grumpy.

Not Stiles though. He’s a fan of cracking jokes, compartmentalizing, and pretending traumatic events never happened until said denial leads to an eventual, massive mental breakdown.

“I have performance anxiety,” he deadpans.

“I sure hope not,” Derek mumbles, loud enough for Stiles’ human ears to pick up.

“Dude, ew,” Scott says, shooting Derek a disgusted look.

Stiles snorts as he tosses off his shirt and unbuckles his pants.

“Believe me. That won’t be an issue,” he reassures, ogling the unobstructed view of Derek from behind. Hot damn, that ass looks like it was carved out of marble.

“Please stop flirting,” Scott whines.

“Stiles, I can see where you’re looking. Don’t make me have to report you for sexual harassment,” Danny says disapprovingly.

Stiles yelps, hopping clumsily on one foot as he detangles himself from the confines of his jeans. “Got it. Sorry, Daddy.”

“I’ll forgive you if you stop looking down.”

“What if I don’t? Are you gonna punish me later?” Despite his words, Stiles pointedly keeps his chin raised as he sheds the last of his clothing.

“Christ.” Derek sighs, eyes rolling skyward like he’s begging for patience.

“ _Dude_. Danny too?” Scott shoots Stiles an incredulous look, only to regret the action immediately, eyes wide in horror. “Oh my god, are you naked?” His hands fly upwards to cover his eyes. “Why are you naked?!”

“He’s what?” Allison blindly repeats Scott’s mistake, glancing backwards and quickly flushing a deep crimson. “Oh,” she squeaks, instantly turning back around. “Oh my god.”

“Is that supposed to get us inside somehow?” Dawa questions snarkily, pointing at Stiles’ lower half.

“Why are you all turning around?!” Stiles shouts, hands defensively darting downwards to cover himself from prying eyes.

“It was an accident!” Scott wails.

“I was curious,” Dawa says.

Derek eyes his team mates— not including Stiles, thankfully— and barks, “Stop turning around!”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Dawa says. Stiles glares at the back of her head. Killing her husband is no excuse to be _mean_.

“Hey, no judging! It’s cold!” he defends.

“Wait, that’s what it looks like when you’re cold?” Danny asks, voice oddly alight with interest.

Stiles frowns. “Uh… Yes?”

Danny hums. “Interesting.”

“Can we stop talking about my dick now?”

Scott throws his hands up. “Please!”

“What happened to, ‘I can report you for sexual harassment’, Danny?” Allison quips.

“Oh, I’ll report myself and it’ll be worth it,” Danny replies with ease. “Hey, Stiles, what are you doing after this mission?”

“Uh…” Stiles’ eyebrows soar upwards and he flounders at the unexpected, but admittedly flattering, attention. “Noth—”

“He’s busy,” Derek snaps at Danny, then throws over his shoulder at Stiles, “Focus on the mission.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, barely resisting the urge to flip him off. He grumbles about unfair treatment, though he does try and shift his focus back to the task at hand.

He steps up to face the hunter’s den, silent with contemplation. He removes his other glove, flattening both palms against the freezing concrete. The cold air is brutal, seeping through the layers of skin and oozing into his joints, making them stiff and his body slow-moving. He grits his teeth against the urge to shake and shiver.

Focus.

He won’t be cold for long, not if he focuses…

The world around him falls away, until all he’s aware of is himself and the rough concrete beneath his palms. They were one, now. Connected by his magic.

The air around them changes, becoming charged. There’s a distinct smell to it, like the moments following a lightning strike.

Heat. Energy. Electricity. _Burning_.

A wave of pure heat pulses through his body, from his toes to his fingertips. Then another one, and another, until he’s left feeling like his blood has thickened in his veins, morphing into thin rivers of lava that carry a searing heat through his nervous system.

Beads of sweat glisten on every inch of his bare skin. They sizzle and evaporate from the intense heat inside of him. He pants and shudders, clenching his jaw against the agonizing shift in his body. But nothing more escapes him than a few pained groans.

“Stiles? Everything alright, buddy?” Scott asks worriedly.

“Just peachy,” Stiles wheezes, his face breaking out into an exhausted grin. A shimmering gray sludge oozes from the minor cracks in the building, trailing down the wall and plopping onto the snowy ground below.

It’s working! Holy shit.

“Oh, fuck.” Stiles groans as overwhelming dizziness hits. In an instant, his burning hands become cool and clammy, his tongue heavy in his mouth, and eyes blinking frantically in a fight against the black dots threatening to take over his vision. He tears his hands from the wall, stumbling backwards as he watches the last of the gray ooze leak down the concrete.

That should be enough.

“Is it hot out here or is it just Derek?” he slurs tiredly.

“I think it’s just you,” Allison says kindly.

“Stiles?” Derek’s head is angled like he’s two seconds from turning around fully.

“I’m fine,” Stiles replies, voice weak even to his own ears. He needs to get his clothes on first. He blinks as his view swims violently. “Totally fine.”

He manages to tug on his pants before the world tilts, going sideways, and he’s suddenly blinking up at the gray-white sky as flurries catch in his eyelashes. Oh. The world hadn’t gone sideways. He had.

“Oops.”

Warm hands wrap around his biceps and help him sit up. Stiles blinks as Derek’s frowning face becomes clear.

“What’s wrong?” Danny prompts in his ear, voice concerned and without the playfulness of before.

Scott appears over Derek’s shoulder. “You okay, man?”

“Too hot,” Stiles complains. Magic like that is exhausting, but he should be ready to go in only a few moments once he cools down. “Stop it, I’m fine.” He pushes Derek away so he can flop back into the snow. It feels amazing against his overheated skin and his heart rate begins to slow back down.

“You’re going to regret that in two minutes,” Derek lightly scolds, prodding at Stiles’ arm like they’re children. Stiles bats his hand away.

“Let me make my own mistakes,” Stiles whines, petulantly rolling over to press his chest and face into the soothing cold. He releases a sound of pure happiness, even as he hears Derek sigh disapprovingly behind him.

“We don’t have spare clothes with us.”

“Then I’ll finish this mission naked.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Hearing that doesn’t surprise Stiles, though he wishes it did. He’s always been self-conscious about showing skin. He knows his tattoos— the permanent marks of who, and what, he is— aren’t conventionally attractive. They’re strange. More often they looked like ever-moving, malformed black bruises under his skin than pretty pictures and cool designs.

They are gross and unpleasant to look at. Stiles knows that.

Yet he can’t help but feel disappointed.

Stiles rolls over and sits up, glowering at Derek.

“Yeah, yeah. I know my tattoos are ugly, okay?” he bites, irritated. His tone is snappish, defensive, in the face of rejection. He’s not proud of how quick he is to lash out.

Derek’s frown deepens and his eyes sharpen with a new intensity. “No. They’re not. They’re _distracting_.”

“Because they’re ugly,” Stiles snarls, reaching to pull on his shirt, but Derek stops him. He trails a hot hand up Stiles’ bicep where a shape-less black blob of ink responds, shifting playfully under his touch.

“Because they’re beautiful.” Derek’s lips tilt up on a small smile. Stiles glances down and grimaces at the inky black heart tattooed on his skin. His ears burn and he quickly tugs the shift over his head and pulls the sleeves down.

“Sure. Whatever you say.” He ignores the way Derek’s expression darkens and turns his attention to where Dawa and Allison are standing by the building, murmuring quietly.

“Give me a second and I can help you guys open a hole in the—” he falls silent, gawking as Dawa smashes a fist through the building. She repeats the action a few more times, each hit causing more and more concrete to crumble and collapse.

Within moments, a baby yeti-sized hole stands where sturdy wall used to be.

Stiles blows out a harsh breath. “Or not.”

“Nice job,” Scott says, voice tinged with awe.

“That was seriously impressive,” Danny agrees.

Dawa smiles softly. “Thank you.”

“What am I, chopped liver? I get no appreciation around here,” Stiles mumbles.

“No offense, but what exactly did you do?” Allison asks.

“He removed the mountain ash from the concrete. Impressive move,” Danny says. At least someone appreciates him!

Stiles presses his hand to his heart. “I need no thanks. I don’t do this for the recognition. I do it out of the goodness of my heart and—”

“You did your job. You didn’t win the Nobel Peace Prize,” Danny deadpans. Stiles deflates.

Or maybe only Stiles appreciates Stiles.

“I’m cancelling our date later,” he says.

“Who said anything about a date?” Danny retorts.

Stiles gasps dramatically, expression scandalized. “Danny! What kind of man do you take me for?”

“An idiot,” Derek says rudely, rolling his eyes when Stiles childishly sticks his tongue out at him.

“Back to the mission,” Danny starts, returning to his usual no-games-at-work self. “You okay to continue? The others can go on ahead if you need more time.”

“No, I’m good,” Stiles says, pushing up to his feet, rejecting Derek’s proffered hand. At the constipated expression on his face, Stiles huffs a laugh and bumps their shoulders as he passes. “Seriously.”

Derek’s shoulders lose some of their tension and he nods, likely hearing the steadiness in Stiles’ heart as he speaks the truth.

Despite all of the jokes and banter, Stiles’ hands shake with small tremors as they each step through the makeshift entrance. In fact, in his experience, agents tended to laugh more and act goofier on missions that terrified them the most. On missions that _traumatized_ them the most.

It’s the best way for them to deal with the horrors they face. Or maybe it’s the only way of coping they know that seems to help.

But the humor from before shrivels up inside him and dies as goosebumps rise on his skin along with the eerie sense of deja vu. It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d scoured the abandoned halls of another hunter facility, the one where they’d found Cora and had been cornered by an unexpected group of guards.

He’s had a bad feeling since they’d stepped out of the van and into this forest. The discomfiting certainty that something is going to go wrong, the almost overwhelming sensation of impending doom— all the while being unable to pinpoint the exact reason for the suspicion.

There is no reason, though. It’s instinctive. Inexplicable. A gut feeling.

And Walmart feels it too.

He’s been noticeably tense and agitated, his already unusual behavior is even stranger than normal. Although he’s prone to vanishing during missions when the boredom gets to be too much, he’s stayed in Stiles’ vicinity this whole time, flying circles overhead like a plane stuck in a holding pattern, waiting to be told the area is clear.

Or perhaps he’s observing the people below like a bird of prey scoping out potential victims. One never knows for sure when it comes to Walmart.

What he does know for certain, though, is that this building has been abandoned. It’s evident in the eerie silence that greets them as they pass through the concrete hallways. It’s as much of a maze as the last hunter’s den, and equally unsettling.

There are no signs of life anywhere inside, but not a spec of dirt or dust either. Though the building is now-vacant, it’s clear that it hasn’t been for long.

They pass door after door, peaking their heads into every room. Chairs are pushed out from tables, notebooks laid bare on the flat surfaces, and hastily scribbled notes adorn the old-fashioned blackboards. They appear to be shallow musings about “rescuing lost souls” and “cleansing the Earth”. May as well be written in gibberish for all the sense they make.

The scene is reminiscent of the many apocalypse movies he’d watched where protagonists had returned to hospitals, homes, and schools to discover the buildings were living relics of the past. In all of those buildings, the rooms had obviously been vacated on a moment’s notice and left untouched since then.

Whatever caused the hunters to leave this place behind had forced them to leave quickly.

The group cautiously passes through the brightly lit halls, each of them tense as though expecting someone or some _thing_ to jump out from any of the doorways. Though the power is still on, the security cameras droop lifelessly in the corners.

Stiles’ fingers wrap around and tug the gun from his waist. The cold metal acts as a grounding weight in his clammy hands.

As much as he enjoyed the thrill of watching suspenseful thrillers and horror movies, he didn’t want to be in one.

The hallway ends with a split off into two directions. Both pathways are exact replicas of the area they just walked through, harsh fluorescent lights humming from their spots on the ceiling, bathing the dull gray walls with a yellow tint. They were equally quiet, equally void of life, and equally disconcerting.

“I can’t bring the security cameras back online,” Danny grumbles. The sound of computer keys clacking in the background halts. After releasing a particularly a frustrated sigh, he says, “And Walmart’s ignoring my commands.”

Perhaps Walmart’s being disagreeable because Danny’s issuing ‘commands’. As if the familiar was someone he could order around. Stiles forces the comment to die on his tongue, not wanting to lash out at Danny when he’s just trying to help them.

“So, what now then?” Allison asks.

“I think you guys should split up. You’ll cover ground faster and I’ll have more of an idea of what we’re dealing with here.”

“Anything that will get us out of here quicker is fine by me. This place gives me the creeps,” Scott says, eyeing the dull and unadorned walls with distrust.

“Allison and Stiles, you can go left. Scott, Dawa, and Derek can go right.”

Stiles’ expression sours before he can stop it. Thankfully, Allison appears similarly displeased by Danny’s instruction. It’s not that Stiles has anything against working with Allison; on the contrary, she’s one of the people he trusts most to have his back. But the thought of separating from Derek, after what had happened the last time he’d split up from his partner, another Hale, was hard to swallow.

“I’d rather stick with Scott,” Allison says. She shoots Stiles a sheepish smile. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Stiles reassures, relieved he didn’t have to come up with some shitty excuse to switch partners.

“I’ll go with Stiles then.” Stiles clamps his mouth shut to avoid saying something stupid, or cheering, over the fact that Derek also wants to stay with him.

The thought sends a flicker of warmth down his spine.

“I have always loved getting picked last for teams,” Dawa says, monotone.

Stiles’ winces with guilt. “Shit. Sorry, Dawa. You can—”

“—come with us,” Scott blurts. With the least amount of subtlety Stiles has ever seen, Scott pointedly darts his eyes between him and Derek, and then waggles his eyebrows suggestively. And then he _winks_ before directing to Dawa, “I’d love to hear more about your village in the Himalayan mountains.”

“Oh.” Dawa stares at him, apparently caught off guard, but flattered, by the request. “Of course. What would you like to know?”

“So many things! Are mammoths really extinct? What about sabertooths? Did you live through ice age? How old _are_ you?” Scott prattles on, voice fading as he and Dawa wander down the hallway to the right. Allison follows closely behind them, momentarily staying back to offer Stiles a short wave and cheeky wink as though Derek _weren’t currently standing right beside him_.

What is with those two and their lack of any subtlety? While it is nice to know that they’re supportive of his feelings for Derek, they’re acting like ‘partnering up’ meant they were going to bone during a mission.

Which is not going to happen, would never happen.

They were professionals.

They just witnessed Dawa kill her horribly mutated husband. Cracking jokes is one thing, but there is no way he could get an erection so soon after that. Even he wasn’t that desensitized to cruelty and violence, no matter how much demon blood he had in his veins.

They would focus on the mission to find and rescue any victims who might still be here. There would be no sex.

None. Nada. Zilch.

Even if the building happened to be abandoned and all of the security cameras turned off. And definitely not even if Derek scowled at him like he is now, eyes dark and nostrils flaring as if he could smell the unmistakable scent of arousal. Wait—

Damnit.

“Seriously?” Derek closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s a faint red tint coming from behind his eyelids, as though Stiles’ ridiculously high libido was enough to draw out his predatory instincts.

Stiles’ dick twitches in his pants. Welp. So much for the ‘no erection’ theory.

“We’re in a hunter’s den, on a mission to rescue shifters they have been torturing. Dawa killed her husband less than an hour ago!” Derek hisses.

Why had Stiles wanted to be paired with him instead of Allison? Allison wouldn’t slut-shame him like this.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stiles scoffs and lifts his chin, determined to keep up the pretense that he has an ounce of dignity left to claim.

Stiles Stilinski, Master of Denial.

“I’m missing something here. What’s up?” Danny asks.

“Stiles’ dick,” Scott intones in his ear. Stiles grimaces. Fuck, he forgot everyone could hear his mic.

“Nothing,” Stiles snaps. His face burns and he jams his finger into the CommUnit’s power button. He gestures wildly at Derek until he does the same.

With a put-upon sigh, Derek complies.

“You don’t get to shame me for normal bodily reactions!”

Derek’s brows scrunch together. “You’re getting turned on during the exploration of a literal torture chamber. How is that a ‘normal bodily reaction’?”

“Danger boners are a thing, Derek.”

“So is sexual sadism.”

Stiles snorts. “Dude, I’m not attracted to violence.”

When Derek crosses his arms— fuck, the way it makes his muscles bulge— and quirks a brow in challenge, Stiles inhales sharply. With a curt clearing of his throat, he steps closer. Derek’s eyebrows lift further and he watches Stiles with rapt attention as he trails a finger down his thick bicep. Stiles glances up at him through his lashes with practiced seduction. He feels the way the large muscle tenses beneath his finger, sees the pale green of his eyes disappearing as they’re swallowed up by the expanding black dot of his pupil.

“I’m not,” Stiles states lowly. The warmth from Derek’s body vanishes as Stiles removes his hand and takes a step back. He shrugs, as though what he’s about to say isn’t another confession of sorts. “It’s just you.”

“It’s just me,” Derek echoes, voice carefully level in a way that speaks of hidden doubt.

“Yes, _you_. You and your hot self. With me. Alone. For the first time since the— y’know— partial chat about feelings or whatever.” Stiles gesticulates at the empty area around them. “And we’re in an abandoned building. With no functioning cameras.”

And apparently traumatic experiences make him horny.

Derek’s face goes blank and he tilts his head in consideration. Wait, is Stiles’ speech actually working?

“And CommUnits are turned off.”

“And CommUnits are turned off,” Stiles confirms. He rocks on the balls of his feet and hides his fidgeting hands behind his back. Why is he so nervous all of a sudden? “I figured we could finish that chat now. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or.” Stiles shrugs. Derek can decide what that entails. There are only a certain number of times a person can put themselves out there, standing on the brink of uncertainty, before they grow tired of the dual sensations of anticipating rejection and hoping for acceptance.

If Stiles is willing to put his heart at risk, the least Derek can do is meet him halfway.

Derek purses his lips in thought. Seemingly settling on an idea, he nods to himself and says, “Or.”

Before Stiles can ask what that means, Derek surges forward to show him.

Rough hands grab at Stiles’ waist, tugging him against the solid line of Derek’s muscled body like he weighs nothing. Which, to Derek, he probably does.

They stumble into the nearest empty room, tripping over their feet and crashing into desks, only coming to a stop when the hard edge of something digs painfully into his lower back. Not that it matters much. Not when Derek’s hands have found their way under his shirt and are trailing hot paths up his bare chest.

Coarse stubble scratches Stiles’ lips and chin, leaving the skin raw and tingling. They’re impossibly close, yet he tries to bring them even closer. Mouth opening wide, he deepens the kiss with his tongue boldly delving into Derek’s mouth.

Derek rumbles his approval, low and deep. Without even a breath of space between them, Stiles can feel the vibrations echoing in his own chest. It’s a faint reminder of who he’s with and how much wilder Derek is in comparison. Stiles’ heart skips with the thrill of it.

Large hands become more forceful as they tug Stiles forward, grinding their pelvises against each other. There’s barely a fraction of the friction they desire between the hard lines of their interested cocks.

Holy shit. What are they thinking? They’re on a mission. They can’t—

Stiles’ brain shuts off as he starts to feel lightheaded, whether from lack of oxygen or something else, he’s not entirely certain. He separates their lips, head tilting to the side as he pants for air, mind blissfully blank as he enjoys being the sole focus of Derek’s attention.

Without missing a beat, Derek shifts his attention to his neck. He presses wet kisses against the skin, trailing an invisible line up to the junction of Stiles’ jaw and ear.

It’s hot as fuck and Stiles shudders at the sensation, never having been kissed like this before. His head spins and he briefly wonders if he’s ever going to get enough air. At the same time, doesn’t really care if he does. Not as long as Derek continues to worship his body like this.

If this is how he dies, that’s absolutely fine by him. He’d have zero complaints.

Negative amounts of complaints.

The sound of familiar feminine laughter jolts him out of— whatever this is that they’re doing. Stiles cranes his neck backwards, dislodging Derek’s mouth from his neck. Wide-eyed, he quickly scans the area around, his entire body a rigid line as he waits for her to appear.

He knows that laughter. He _knows_ it. But why had he heard it here, of all places? Of all times?

It’s been years… But he’d know his mother’s laughter anywhere.

He knows that’s what he heard, but he also knows, without a doubt, that she’s gone.

She’s dead.

She’s never coming back.

So why had he heard her laughter just now?

Is he being haunted?

Or is he, too, mentally deteriorating, like his familiar seems to be?

“Stiles?” Derek pants. The frantic thrumming of Stiles’ heartbeat was probably as loud as war drums in his ears.

Stiles shakes his head to clear his thoughts and surges forward again to reclaim Derek’s mouth as his own. He doesn’t want to think about whether he’s going crazy or not, doesn’t want to think about the horrors that have happened in this building, or what they’d seen outside.

He wants to focus on something other than pain, and loss, and anger. For once. To feel _good._ To feel wanted, desired, and appreciated. To hear Derek tell him over and over again how beautiful his tattoos are, until he’s convinced.

Is that too much to ask?

He mindlessly caresses the firm planes of a muscled chest, lips pulling up into a smile when, with a flick of his finger against a clothed nipple, he elicits a heady groan from Derek. A sound that Stiles greedily swallows. Fuck, he’d never thought sensitive nipples would be on his list of major turn-ons, but here he is, dick straining painfully against his restrictive pants, rock hard from the sound of Derek’s raspy moan.

Stiles whimpers, hips mindlessly pushing forward, as Derek’s teeth briefly bite down on his bottom lip. It’s not painful, but rather it’s a pleasant pressure. It won’t take long before his lips are going to swell, an obvious sign to everyone else what they’d gotten up to.

The prospect of the others knowing should concern him. It doesn’t. Not even a little.

“What do you want?” Derek murmurs against his mouth.

He wants Derek to make him forget everything else, everyone else. He wants to feel like they’re alone, truly alone. That this unfair world, his fears of the future, the endless war they’re stuck in— all of it— is gone. And they’re the only two survivors.

He wants to pretend. For now.

For a moment.

That he’s normal. That they’re normal.

That everything would be okay.

That everything would be _better_ than okay.

“What are you offering?” He coyly drags his hand down the flat plain of Derek’s abs and comes to a stop, hovering over the hefty bulge in his pants.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek groans, his groin pressing into Stiles’ touch.

“I’m cool with that.” Stiles rubs his palms along the denim of Derek’s jeans, his fingers reaching for the zipper.

A loud clattering sound behind him has a yelp tearing from Stiles’ throat. He flails and swings his head around, half expecting an assailant to pop up. Or a ghost.

But there’s no-one there. They’re alone.

The room is similar to many they’ve seen before. The hunters don’t appear to stray much from a certain template.

There’s a vast amount of vacant space, split in half by a long bookshelf placed in the middle like a divider. With nearly every space on the shelf occupied by a book of some sort, it’s impossible to tell what’s on the other side. The thought of something being hidden behind it has Stiles’ fingers gripping tighter at Derek’s shirt.

Stiles’ gaze moves lower and he notices the marble island that’s currently digging painfully into lower back is decorated with haphazardly strewn about notebooks and partially-filled vials. Whether they’d been more neatly arranged before their presence, he’s not sure.

He’s also not sure he wants to be standing so closely to vials filled with questionable contents.

With that thought in mind, he pushes against Derek’s firm chest until he takes the hint to step back. Stiles swivels around, only just spotting the source of the noise from before. Thick books are strewn about the floor, having been knocked off the table in their eagerness.

The tension in his shoulders eases at the sight. He’s not sure why he feels so jumpy— so paranoid— all of a sudden. Perhaps he isn’t cut out for stealing secret kisses or having quickies during missions like he’d thought.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, curious as Derek moves to pick up one of the books.

“This looks like another magic book,” Derek says. He handles it surprisingly gently, almost caressing it as he trails both eyes and fingers over the cover and opens the book. The pages are golden brown from age, some of the corners singed like it’d had an unfortunate run-in with fire at some point. Which isn’t surprising considering most people didn’t like books that encouraged to use of witchcraft.

“And your first thought is ‘let me pick this up’? What if it’s cursed?”

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him. “Is it?”

Stiles shrugs. “Possibly. Keep your distance from me, just in case. I don’t need more bad luck than I already have.”

Derek huffs a laugh, leaning in to give a peck on his lips before striding towards the bookshelf. Dazed at the unexpected show of affection, Stiles stares after him owlishly.

Once again, he finds himself asking, “What are you doing?”

“Browsing,” Derek replies absently. Stiles snorts and walks up to him. They stand side by side, perusing the many titles adorning the shelves.

“Looking for some light reading for the van ride back?” Stiles playfully bumps his shoulder against Derek’s. Derek doesn’t spare him a glance, but Stiles catches the way his lips tilt upwards.

“Or a clue as to what they’re doing.”

It’s a good idea, but, as Stiles scans the titles, he’s pretty certain that this is a witch’s personal collection rather than a collection of books brought together for researching a cause.

“I was wondering,” Derek starts. Stiles glances up as the note of uncertainty in his voice registers. “Has Claudia written anything?” With a gesture towards the books, he adds, “One of those ‘dead witch’ books?”

Stiles’ lips thin. He shakes his head. “It usually takes around fifty years to write one. I’ll probably never get to read her book, if she writes one.”

The thought doesn’t sting the way it used to when he was younger. He’s had years to come to terms with it. Whether or not he has the opportunity to read what musings Claudia might have left to say, he had ten amazing, wisdom-filled years with her. Besides, the thought that she might write a book, that a piece of her might live on forever, continuing to teach more and more students… Yeah. He’s okay with that thought.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says softly.

Stiles offers him a tight smile. Derek smiles back briefly before returning his attention to the discarded book still lying on the ground. He lifts it up, brushing away the light layer of dust, only to drop it with a shout as Walmart dive-bombs him like the spawn from hell he is.

“What the hell?!” Derek barks, inspecting his bloody palm. It’s already healing over, since it wasn’t a deep cut. Walmart isn’t known for his ability to inflict much damage, but the attack is enough to garner Stiles’ disapproving scowl.

They’d had a truce, hadn’t they?

“What is wrong with you?” Stiles seethes.

Walmart doesn’t seem fazed by the negative attention. Instead, he hops up and down on the binding of the book Derek had been holding moments prior. It’s sprawled out on the floor, pages spilling open. He bobs like an excited parrot dancing to music only he can hear as his tiny talons leave behind puncture marks in the pages.

Is he trying to say something? Is there something about that book he wants Stiles to look at?

Stiles squints at it and reaches down to inspect the writing more closely. Before he can make out any words, the ink shines and sparkles under Walmart’s feet. Shimmering letters come to life and rise into the air.

Stiles’ jaw clenches as the script hovers, rearranges, and takes new shape.

 

STILES IS A LITTLE BITCH

 

Walmart caws gleefully, as if in agreement. The sound cuts off at Stiles’ warning glare. Walmart ruffles his feathers and looks away, hopefully remorseful for his immature actions.

Derek’s eyes widen as he marvels at the glistening air, oblivious to the rude message within the pretty display. Stiles envies the innocent wonder in Derek’s pale green eyes when he turns his expectant gaze towards him. “What does it say?”

Stiles grimaces. He opens his mouth as he debates telling the truth. Does he have to give the literal, word-for-word meaning if a brief summary would work just as well? If Derek had wanted an exact, literal translation, he could’ve studied the Old Language during his training. But he hadn’t done that, ergo, he’s cool with having someone else act as an ambassador for him. A translator.

And translators have the creative freedom to decide how a message is interpreted and relayed. He’s not going to lie to Derek. He’s simply choosing the interpretation that’s slightly less colorful.

“They said ‘hi’.”

Even with creative liberties, he’s technically telling the truth. Witches are known to greet each other in various ways, but the most popular form of greeting is one that includes the lobbying of increasingly harsh insults until someone either cracks and laughs or bursts into tears.

Which appears to be their current situation.

Stiles reaches out towards the book, motioning with grabby hands until Derek rolls his eyes, picks it up, and hands it over.

“Thank you, hot stuff.” Stiles blows him a kiss and acts like he can’t feel the weight of Derek’s glower on the side of his face as he scans the cover page.

_**How to Sacrifice a Man for Better Fortune: How and Why I Sacrificed My Husband, and You Should Too.** _

_**by Miriam Deglove** _

Ah. Miriam. Stiles bites back a groan at the all-too-familiar name. Miriam Deglove is quite notorious among the witch community, since she’s one of the few witches who refuses to cross over. She continues to write novel after novel, churning them out like it’s her actual job. It’s astounding how she never seems to run out of things to talk about.

She’s also infamous for being the afterlife’s biggest pain in the ass. Rarely does she utter any words of wisdom or advice, unless forced to or beaten in a game of insults. But that’s all hearsay. The only experience Stiles has with her is when he’d accidentally dropped a bowl of jello on her book about which potions dissolved human flesh the quickest. It had only stained a few page corners, but Miriam had cussed him out like he’d defaced a priceless piece of art.

It had happened a long time ago, when Stiles was twelve _,_ but he’ll never forget the day that he’d heard someone use every. single. curse word in a single sentence. Claudia had relegated her books to being nothing more than door stoppers after that.

Stiles smiles absently at the fond memory.

As awful as Miriam may be, running into her here might be hidden a stroke of luck. Stiles has a lot of pent up feelings right now, and she makes for a perfect target.

“Long time no see, Miriam. How’ve you been?” he cheerily greets, hands on his hips as he peers up at the hovering letters. “Hunters treating you well? Or with minimal amounts of torture and jello, I hope.”

 

_In those days people will seek death and will not find it,_

_and they will long to die, and death will flee from them._

 

“Um.”

He’s officially concerned. Miriam is religious, but she doesn’t typically recite bible passages like some of the others. She doesn’t appreciate proselytizing, seeing as she’s more a fan of condemning people hell than trying to save them.

And, if she’s not trying to convert him, that forces him to consider the possibility that she’s chosen that specific bible verse for a reason.

But for what reason?

To mock him?

To scare him?

To warn him?

 

_One woe is gone; behold, again two woes are coming._

 

Yeah, that definitely sounds ominous.

Is he about to get possessed again? Because this seems like something from a horror movie.

“It sure sounds like things are going well.” Stiles wrings his hands together nervously. “And I don’t see any mothballs, so that’s good!”

 

_And by these three scourges a third of the children of men were killed:_

_by the fire, by the brimstone and by the smoke that proceeded from their mouths_

 

He’s absolutely certain that he’s heard that exact phrase before, though it takes him a moment to recall when. It had been during the mission with Cora, in the hunters’ library. It hadn’t been pleasant to hear then, and it isn’t any better this time.

If anything, he’s more worried now. There’s a reason multiple dead witches were reciting the same bible verse to him; some hidden meaning behind it. But what…?

Three scourges? Fire, brimstone, and smoke coming out of someone’s mouth?

How was anyone supposed to extrapolate some significance, some meaningful message, out of that?

“I’m really not much of a bible guy, to be honest. Care to elaborate on that for us non-religious folks?”

 

SODOMITE

 

Stiles tips his head back, sighing in frustration. Clearly Miriam had finished with bible study. He’s not surprised her first insults were ‘bitch’ and ‘sodomite’. In his experience, most of the dead witches were quite judgemental of his ‘lifestyle choices’. If only they knew he’s lusting after a man who’s also a werewolf. They’d pitch a fit. The bestiality jokes would be endless.

“Sodomite? That’s one I haven’t heard in a while. When did you die again? The ice age?”

The words briefly falter in the air before swiftly rearranging. Floating letters clumsily bash into each other in their haste to form a retort.

It’s better than Stiles had anticipated.

 

BLASPHEMOUS HELL-SPAWN

 

A gleeful grin blooms on Stiles’ face. Trading insults probably shouldn’t be this much fun, but he’s learning to enjoy the little things in life.

“Broom-fucker.”

Derek shoots him a horrified glance, but Stiles pays him no mind. He’s too busy to translate.

 

YOUR COCK IS THE SIZE OF A SHRIVELED PRUNE

AND YOUR ASSHOLE GAPES LIKE THE PORTAL TO HELL

 

Stiles’ jaw drops. That is out-of-line. There’s a difference between insulting someone and _blatantly lying_.

Even so, despite his outrage, he can’t help but feel slightly impressed at her creativity.

Okay, very impressed.

Does he have hearts in his eyes? It feels like he has hearts in his eyes. Sorry, Derek, there might be someone else who’s caught his interest.

He has no other choice than to pull out the big guns. He’d been hoping it wouldn’t come down to this, but she’s given him no other choice.

“At least my ass is better than your saggy wet-sock of a cunt.”

He winces as he says it, but stands firm after, even when he hears Derek’s pointed, “Jesus Christ, Stiles!”

He doesn’t usually resort to such vulgarity, but Miriam’s really bringing out the best in him today.

 

WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF CUNTS, YOU COCK-SUCKING SON OF THE DEVIL

 

Stiles chokes on his tongue and startled laughter bursts out of him. Out of all the homophobic and nasty witches he’s talked to over the years, Miriam might be his favorite.

After all, her specific brand of homophobia comes with some pizazz.

“At least I have someone who wants to fuck me.”

Miriam goes silent and the letters droop, seemingly with hurt. Had the last joke gone too far? Hit a little too close to home? He hopes so.

Anxiously awaiting a response, Stiles prods, “Do you concede or are you consulting the spirits for better comebacks?”

Still no reply.

“What the hell is happening?” Derek asks, bemused. He really should sound more impressed; Stiles might’ve won a verbal spar with the infamous ‘Wicked Bitch of the West’ Miriam Deglove.

“We’re having a friendly chat.”

“You called the book a soggy cunt and said nobody wanted to fuck it.”

Stiles tries and fails to hold back his laughter, but it bursts out of him like an explosion, aftershocks vibrating through his body at Derek’s expression. Considering he’d only heard half of the conversation, his look of bewilderment and offense is understandable.

Laughter fades into chuckles as Stiles forces himself to take calming breaths.

It feels good to laugh though, after everything he’s experienced over the past few hours. The sadness of the day had been so thick earlier, it’d almost felt like it would physically choke him.

His smile thins at the recent memory.

“What were you really doing?” Derek asks, cautious like he’s not sure he wants the answer.

“Negotiating for information.”

Some witches love to offer their advice and wisdom for free. Others, offered theirs at a price. Miriam, it seems, is the latter.

And there’s nothing witches like to barter with more than petty insults or gossip.

 

WHAT DO YOU WANT

 

“How about telling me what's going on here? In _modern_ _English_ ,” Stiles requests, almost giddy over Miriam’s concession.

 

MODERN, YOU SAY? I CAN DO THAT

SWIGGITY SWOOTY, THEY’RE COMING FOR YOUR BOOTY

 

Fucking hell. Miriam is definitely his new favorite person.

“Too modern,” Stiles wheezes through peals of laughter. “Where did you learn that? You don’t have the internet!”

Apparently choosing to ignore that question in favor of rephrasing her prior statement, Miriam’s floating handwriting morphs into a blatant, humorless warning:

 

YOU’RE GOING TO DIE, BOY

 _ALL OF YOU_ ARE GOING TO DIE

 

And that…

That gives him pause. Sucks the air out of the center of his chest, forcing the laughter to die on his tongue. It tastes bitter. Sulphuric.

What did that mean? How would they die? Would they be killed? By whom? By hunters or one their horrifying experiments?

When? Today? Tomorrow? A year from now?

Where? Here? Another state, or country?

There are so many follow up questions he could ask, but he knows he has to be picky. Miriam won’t be helpful for long. Witches never are. They’re fickle beings, dead ones even more-so.

After brief deliberation, he settles on his reply.

“How?”

 

YOU

 

Him? He’s going to be the cause of their death? That clarifies absolutely nothing.

Frustration bubbles inside him, flooding through his body like a tidal wave and washing away all hints of amusement from moments prior. It’s impressive how Miriam managed to respond in the vaguest way possible, offering an answer that is both helpful and _incredibly_ _unhelpful_ at the same time.

Stiles’ fists clench at his sides. He despises this feeling of helplessness, of not knowing what to do or say. He can’t even think of a single quirky reply, he’s too thrown by the dark turn the conversation has taken.

This is what he’s been terrified of. Being faced with confirmation that he is dangerous. A threat to anyone and everyone he loves. But, he can’t help but wonder, _how_.

How is he a danger to them when he’d rather disembowel himself than hurt any of his friends?

Or Derek.

Especially Derek, who has been through so much already. Stiles could never add to that pain. Would never.

Not consciously.

As if privy to Stiles’ thoughts, Derek enters his space and rests a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He’s unnaturally warm, so warm that Stiles can feel the heat of it through his shirt and against his skin. He can feel the way his magic reacts to Derek’s closeness, his tattoos flowing across his skin and swirling beneath Derek’s palm. He squeezes gently— a small reassurance— likely noticing the sharp increase in Stiles’ anxiety.

“What did she say?” Derek asks, speaking in a low-tone. His hand rubs up and down Stiles’ bicep, a sweet reassuring gesture that has Stiles peering back at Derek in confusion.

What are they doing? What is _this_ , this fragile connection between them? They still haven’t defined it, not completely.

Would this, whatever it is, be the death of him? Is this how Stiles will inevitably kill him? By worming his way under Derek’s skin, gaining his trust, and using that vulnerability to tear the still-beating heart from his chest?

“ _Stiles?”_

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles says, pulled from his thoughts back into reality.

“What did she say?”

With a forced air of calm and casualness, Stiles replies, “Typical bible stuff and insults. The end of the world is coming, yada yada. We’ll all die, yada yada. My asshole gapes like the portal to hell, yada yada.” He waves a flippant hand and scoffs. “It’s honestly so cliche. I mean, geez, can these old hags get some new material already?”

Derek’s face pinches in disgust. “Your asshole _what?”_

A shrill, mechanical screech catches them off guard. They leap apart in surprise, hands instinctively reaching for the devices in their ears. The noise mercifully ends quickly, though Stiles is still reeling from the loudness. His head pounds and ears ring, and Derek doesn’t appear to be faring much better. His face is pale, a shimmer of sweat above his brow, and jaw clenched with pain. For the first time, Stiles doesn’t envy his supernatural hearing.

Thick static fills the silence. A robotic voice breaks through the white noise.

_“Manual override engaged. System rebooting.”_

Oh no.

Oh no, no no. They hadn’t turned their CommUnits back on, had they? Damnit. They were going to be in so much trouble. Danny probably wants to kill them. Hell, when she finds out, Lydia actually might.

Stiles grimaces, guilt-ridden and ashamed at the sound of Danny’s fury. It’s loud enough to cause a faint ringing in his ears.

“I could fucking kill you both! What the fuck were you thinking?! Why would you turn off your CommUnits in the middle of a mission?!” Danny shouts. “ _Don’t you fucking touch that, Stiles!”_ Stiles abashedly lowers his hand from where it’d been hovering in the air, reaching to lower the volume on his ear piece. “Are you two insane?!”

Stiles glances at Derek, finding a matching puzzled look on his face. It’s not that they don’t understand what they did wrong, they do. It’s a colossal, and potentially fatal, mistake to make. They know that. But, of the (admittedly few) tech agents in the agency, Danny is well-known for his laissez-faire approach to the job.

His current voice, strained and noticeably panicked, is nothing short of unusual.

Something is wrong, beyond their mistake.

“Are you okay? Danny?” Stiles asks, concern growing as he hears the change in Danny’s breathing. It’s shallow and rapid in his ear, like the beginning of an anxiety attack.

“Danny?” Derek barks, authoritative and demanding, losing all sense of sheepishness.

For a minute, there’s nothing on the other line, like Danny’s mic has been muted. Seconds tic by slowly before Danny’s voice returns.

When he speaks, it’s immediately evident something _horribly_ wrong. His words are thick with emotion. And wet with tears.

“Scott’s been shot.”

Stiles’ vision tunnels.

Miriam’s book slips through numb fingers, clattering loudly onto the ground. Distantly, he registers the faint sound of Walmart’s shrieking caws.

Derek’s mouth moves, but his reply goes unheard. The silence ringing in his ears is a deafening roar, forcing him to move.

To _run_.

He shoves past Derek and through the doorway, following the blackbird soaring past him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bible quotes cited: Revelation 9:6, 9:12, 9:18; The Original Aramaic New Testament in Plain English.
> 
> It's been a little while, hasn't it? Sorry about the wait. Unfortunately, I got buried in medical debt and real life became too overwhelming for me to want to write. Thankfully, things seem to be settling down for the moment. Thank you, again, for being patient with me! :) 
> 
>  
> 
> _Let me know what your favorite part of this chapter was!_
> 
>  
> 
> For updates on TSiOB, to message me, or to support me: Follow me [here](http://teenshmolf.tumblr.com)


	14. Revelations (Part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the chapter count to 19, but the rest of the story is completely plotted out, so I don’t expect the count to change (and I really hope it doesn’t, because I don’t want to write a 200k fic. I have to drawn a line somewhere).
> 
> My theory is that you won’t hate me for changing the chapter count again if I update quickly ;)

For as long as Stiles can recall, his knee-jerk response to fear and tragedy has always been to crack jokes; to emotionally distance himself while simultaneously try to ease the tension. “Gallows humor” Claudia had called it. 

Someone died? Time for a joke! 

Someone threatens him with torture? He’ll torture them first with an awful pun.

But this— seeing Scott unconscious on the floor with Allison leaning over him, her blood-stained hands pressed to his chest as she whispers words of love and encouragement— no. He can’t find any humor in this.

He can’t feel anything at all, actually. It’s like he’s disconnected from his body, watching this happen as if it were a movie on a screen and not reality.

“This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening,” Allison repeats like a mantra. Her whole body is trembling, and Stiles worries she may shake apart completely.

He’s panting from his run to get here, but adrenaline surges through his veins like a drug. He feels wired, hands fidgety and eyes wild. He needs to do something, but can’t get himself to move.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this. Oh God.” 

Allison’s near-hyperventilating, skirting the edge of a panic attack. She presses her tear-stained cheeks against Scott’s. His usually tan skin is alarmingly pale, almost the same shade as Allison’s alabaster complexion. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore. Scott, _please_ ,” her voice comes out thick and raspy, constantly breaking with emotion. “Please, baby. Stay with me.” 

“Scott.” Stiles almost chokes on the name as it sticks in his mouth, not wanting to be spoken. Not wanting to acknowledge this is really happening. 

Allison startles and blinks up at him, only now noticing his presence. What would Natalie Martin say if she were alive to witness this? The agency’s beloved stone soldier on her knees, cracks forming in her marble facade, threatening to shatter irreparably.

She looks like a kid with her eyes puffy and red, and an unattractive twist to her lips. It hits like a physical blow to Stiles’ chest, the reminder of just how young she truly is.

How young they _all_ are.

Nothing more than kids dressing up to play a game of war, upset when faced with harsh reality.

Stiles swallows past the lump in his throat. “Is he…?”

Allison hiccoughs and her blood-slick fingers curl into Scott’s chest while she holds pressure against the wound. Stiles’ heart stops. 

No, no—

Not him. Not Scott. Stiles can’t lose him. He can’t lose him too—

As if reading the grief and panic on his face, Allison frantically shakes her head. Voice watery and strained, she rasps, “Need the bullet.”

He’s still alive then. For now. But they need a bullet from the gun to counteract the poison pumping through his system before it stops his heart.

“Who shot him?” Derek questions from the doorway. 

“Some kid,” Danny says, voice grim.

“We opened the door and…” Allison cuts off and shuts her eyes, as if that would stop her from reliving the event. Going by her tormented expression, it doesn’t work.

“He’s young and clearly untrained. He fired before the door had even fully opened,” Danny fills in. “He looked terrified.”

Who cares what he looked like or whether or not he was trained? Stiles will guarantee he never touches another gun, or harms anyone else, again.

“What was he doing here? Everyone else is gone,” Stiles snaps, aware that he’s lashing out at the wrong people in his frustration, but unable to stop it. “Why the hell would the hunters leave behind some untrained kid with a trigger finger?”

“Someone had to stay back to shut down all the systems,” Danny utters. “I’m guessing he drew the short straw.”

“Shit,” Derek sighs.

“Don’t you pity him,” Stiles growls. Derek’s brows pull together in displeasure at the hostility. “He _shot_ Scott!”

“He shot a _stranger_ ,” Derek corrects. “An intruder.”

“Who knows if they’d even told him we were coming,” Danny says, too rational for Stiles’ liking.

He doesn’t care if the hunter knew. His blind panic and stupidity got Scott _shot_. He could die! _Permanently!_

If Scott doesn’t make it…

Stiles’ teeth grind. He can’t think that way. Scott’s going to be fine, because he has to be, because Stiles needs him to be.

“Where did he go? Did he take the gun with him?”

“Through the door and to the left,” Allison relays, sharp eyes watching him with interest. “Dawa went after him.”

“Good,” Stiles mutters, vindictiveness surging within him. Dawa wouldn’t show him mercy either. “I’ll back her up. I’ll come back with the bullet. Scott’s going to be okay, Al. I promise.”

He pretends not to notice the worry in Derek’s expression. But, before he can make a move for the doorway, Allison has him pausing in his tracks.

“Hell no! I’m coming too.” Her expression shutters closed. She compartmentalizes her trauma, pushing down her panic, her terror, in a way Stiles knows well.

She sits back on her haunches, moving swiftly as Scott’s wound pulses blood unfettered in her absence. She rips the knife from the holster around her thigh and removes her jacket and long-sleeved shirt, leaving only an undershirt on. She slices the shirt into strips and ties them into makeshift bandages.

“Stop gawking and help me!” she demands, stumbling to her feet while struggling under the dead weight of Scott’s limp body. Derek rushes forward to assist her, lifting Scott into his arms. His werewolf strength makes it seem effortless. Allison throws him a grateful, tight-lipped smile and turns to Stiles with a determined look. “I’m not sitting here waiting for you to come back. We don’t have the time.”

Stiles nods. “Tell us where to go, Danny.”

He does.

o0o0o0o

Despite knowing how awful the hunters were, how cruel and inventive they could be, he hadn’t been prepared for what he sees as he stumbles into the room. 

At first, his eyes instantly fall on Dawa looming over a young man. It’s difficult to tell due to the way he’s cowering against the wall, his face mostly shielded by his arms, but it’s clear he’s young. 

“I’m sorry!” he cries, his arm dropping enough to give Stiles an unimpeded view of his face. His features are distorted by fear, but it’s evident that he’s young. Tan and scrawny, with a patchy beard like he’s trying to grow it out for the first time. 

He’s eighteen years old, at most, but it’s more likely he’s fifteen or sixteen.

Or maybe the absolute terror in his expression makes him appear more youthful.

Stiles’ chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as he tears his gaze away from them and realizes the hell he’s walked into.

Distantly, he hears Allison and Derek enter behind him, the sound of their quick footsteps and quiet, shocked gasps. 

“What…” Derek’s voice comes out raspy and low and Stiles swallows sympathetically, his own throat having dried immediately at the sight as well.

Time seems to freeze around them, allowing them the opportunity to take in their surroundings. As horrifying as they are.

Imbedded in the walls are large oblong-shaped tanks. They are like the ones they’d seen before at the last hunters’ den, made of glass and clearly meant to contain something— or someone— inside. 

Unlike before, these chambers aren’t empty. Despite how desperately Stiles wishes they were.

Instead, humanoid creatures of various shapes and sizes are locked inside, their bodies trapped in this god-forsaken place, even in death. 

Because, it is undeniable, that they are all deceased.

Stiles’ eyes flicker down one creatures’ body. A metal band wrapped around her waist is the only thing keeping her upright. 

Her long black hair is matted and dirty as though it hadn’t been washed in weeks. Perhaps months. Dirt, or possibly dark freckles, decorate her ashy brown skin and sharp, but sunken cheekbones. 

Small antlers adorn her temples, jutting out from a small area above her ears, and furry ankles ending in hooves extend well beyond the frayed edges of her well-worn pants. 

She is a deer woman. Or was, some time ago. 

Now, she was something else.

Her body is skeleton-thin, the angles of her bones prominent under taut skin, evidence of malnourishment and neglect. 

Tumors sprouted from her bare arms. Smaller limbs and long strands of hair sprouting out of her body where they shouldn’t, like the monstrous hybrid they’d found outside.

Stiles wonders what she must have looked like in life. Before the hunters turned her into a testament of their cruelty.

How long had she been here? How long had she suffered before they finally set her soul free?

Pale, lifeless eyes gaze back at him, her lips parted as though frozen in time, forever stuck on her final words, or scream. Her neck is gouged open, and only then does Stiles notice that her hands are heavily-stained with dried blood.

He looks away, blinking in a futile attempt at getting rid of the burning sensation in his eyes. It doesn’t help. 

It gets worse.

Because, it turns out she had been one of the lucky ones. 

Body after body lie lifelessly in each one of the glass chambers. Blood splatters and bloody handprints stain some of them, while others are disturbingly transparent, leaving nothing to the imagination.

The last tank on the end holds nothing but severed limbs. Stiles’ stomach rolls violently.

“Oh my g—” Stiles chokes on the word, his throat constricting, and he greedily gasps for air, trying not to think about how those victims will never be able to do the same. Derek’s hand reaches out for him and Stiles shakes his head sharply, stepping out of reach.

He can’t handle being touched right now, not when he feels so close to shattering into pieces. 

The agency taught him many vile, reprehensible, and unspeakable things. They explained, in detail, how to dismember, poison, and slaughter, with the expectation that he would use that knowledge for the benefit of their cause without a moment of hesitation.

And, though Supe instructors tried their best, they never understood that they couldn’t teach heartlessness. They could instruct their students on the quickest way to sever an artery, but they couldn’t take away their students’ conscience.

Their compassion.

Their _humanity_.

Years of training hadn’t— could never have— prepared him for this.

‘ _I’m sorry’,_ he wishes he could say to the corpses around him, but the words die behind clenched teeth. It’s not like they would hear him anyway. They were long gone now, somewhere way beyond his reach. 

Perhaps Claudia would be there to take care of them.

There’s a sharp tugging sensation in his gut, a tingling-burning in his palms, and then the glass tanks become opaque, the gruesome contents inside hidden by a barrier of solid black.

His knees wobble warningly, his whole body fatigued from the use of his magic. He fights through it, blocking out the pain and tiredness.

Something inside his mind breaks down, crumbling to pieces while he mentally tries to brush it aside.

Compartmentalize. He clenches his eyes shut, tuning out everything else.

_Compartmentalize_.

He can almost envision Braeden’s flat look, her unimpressed tone. _“You turn that part of your mind off. Force it to go blank. Lights out. It’s not that hard, kid.”_

_It’s not that hard._

_Force it to go blank._

With clenched fists, Stiles takes a calming breath and re-focuses on Dawa. 

Derek’s at her side, his hand grasping tightly around her raised arm. She’s partially-shifted, small white tufts of fur along her cheeks and nails extending into thick, dark claws. Her jaw is low and widened, making room for her two massively protruding fangs. 

They’re arguing. That much is obvious. 

The hunter boy peers up at them with panicked eyes that dance between the two of them.

The silencing bubble in Stiles’ ears bursts. Like a tidal wade, sound comes flooding back in.

“—I said I know, Danny!” Allison snaps from behind him. She’s kneeling beside Scott’s unresponsive body. Unlike the other bodies, he’s still breathing. Still alive. For now.

He’s pale and sweaty though, his chest moving with rapid and shallow breaths as he fights against the poison surging through his veins.

There’s a gun and its magazine by Allison’s leg, the silver casing of a discarded round resting off to the side. Using a lighter from her utility belt, she lights the wolfsbane-infused gunpowder in her palms and speaks words of encouragement to Scott to prepare him for her next move.

Shoving the smoldering residue inside his wound.

“You’re going to be okay, baby. Just breathe. It’ll be okay. Just—”

Scott howls in agony, a powerful sound so thunderous it vibrates the ground beneath their feet.

A similar roar echoes across the room, though it’s filled with fury rather than pain. Dawa’s hand is wrapped around Derek’s throat, her face contorted in rage.

“Drop him!” Stiles shouts, hand instinctively reaching for his gun before he dismisses the idea. 

He’s not losing another agent.

Glowing red eyes snap to him, hate-filled and narrowing at their new target.

“Derek’s not the enemy, Dawa,” he says slowly, voice wavering only slightly. He raises his hands placatingly. “Let him go.”

She does.

Derek wheezes as he sucks in air, a pained grimace on his face as he rubs at the bruised skin. At least he won’t be in pain for long.

Stiles warily watches as Dawa advances toward him. Her movements her tight with restrained anger. 

“Talk some sense into them!” she snarls, loud despite coming to a stop barely a foot away from him. “They do not want me to kill him!” She points at the unarmed hunter, the suddenness of her movements causing the young man to crouch further in an attempt to make himself appear smaller. 

“We’re killing him,” Stiles intones. It’s not a question.

“No. We’re not,” Derek refutes, voice rough like gravel from Dawa’s attack.

“P-please don’t kill me! I’m _sorry_ ,” the hunter pleads. His head lifts, revealing a runny trail of tears and snot pooling on the ridge of his upper lip.

Dawa's irritated puff of air rustles through Stiles’ hair.

“We’re killing him.” There’s a sternness to his tone, a certainty. He would not be swayed otherwise.

“Please don’t! I swear I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” Stiles barks. The hunter jolts like he’s been shot and, upon realizing he’s still unharmed— at least for the moment— lowers his gaze and raises his hands higher. Obediently, he goes silent.

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs his name with calm and patience, stepping forward with cautious slowness. 

Another hidden piece of Stiles cracks and breaks apart. 

He shoots Derek a look of warning that halts him in his tracks. Derek’s frown deepens.

“He’s not responsible for this.”

Stiles swivels around to face Allison. She’s stern-faced, but her pale pallor and quaking hands bely her tough facade. Like him, she is beginning to fall apart. 

But her cracks are showing.

Then again, his might be too. Perhaps that’s why everyone is looking at him with that glint of caution in their eyes.

“We’d be killing him for _nothing_ ,” she says coldly.

“We’d be getting revenge!” Dawa rebukes.

Allison’s lip curls, her bloodied hand clenching into a fist over the fresh, pink skin on Scott’s chest. 

“You think he did all this? _Him?”_ She snorts dismissively. “He’s a child!” 

“You and I both know what a child can do with the right education,” Stiles says darkly. Allison glowers at him.

“Don’t you get it? He’s just a pawn to them. They left him behind because he’s expendable, because he doesn’t know anything useful, because he _hasn’t done anything!_ They left him behind to die!” Allison shouts. “Because he’s a kid!”

“That ‘kid’ shot Scott!”

“I didn’t mean to! He startled me! I wasn’t— I was— I’m _sorry,_ ” the hunter cries.

“Shut up or I’ll spell your dick off!” Stiles jabs a finger in his direction threateningly. In his anger, uncontrolled sparks fly out of his fingertip. Technically he’s bluffing. He’s not sure if he can spell someone’s dick off, it’s not like he’s ever had a reason to try a spell like that. But the others don’t know that.

The boy sobs and closes his eyes tightly, but complies.

“You need to calm down,” Derek says. Calm. Too calm. Where was the angry Derek from weeks ago?

“Oh, now you’re against killing all of a sudden?” Stiles says viciously. A sick satisfaction wells up in Stiles’ chest at the hurt that flickers over Derek expression.

That’s right. Nobody really loves a monster, do they?

“Don’t,” Derek warns, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Look at them!” Stiles bellows, gesturing widely at the carnage around them. The shield of black slithers away, revealing the severed limbs and the myriad corpses. The evidence of human experimentation and creation of unnatural hybrids.

How could that be forgiven?

Stiles’ stomach swoops unpleasantly as a horrid thought occurs to him.

“Is this what would’ve happened to the sirens if we hadn’t gotten to them first?” he asks, feeling too hollow inside as his mind blocks the thought from taking hold. 

He can’t let himself entertain that scenario. Not even for a moment.

“If we kill him, there will be one less monster in this world. One less hunter hurting others,” Dawa says.

“You’re wrong,” Derek says with finality. “He would be dead, but there wouldn’t be one less monster in the world. You would take his place.”

“Well, lucky for us, I’ve been a monster my whole life. If I kill him, then it’s fine. No additional monsters made,” Stiles says, lifting his hand and wiggling the fingers.

He’ll make it quick, so they can leave this hellhole, but it will be painful too. Agonizing. 

This won’t be an act of mercy.

His tattoos swirl and pulse beneath his skin, thrilled at the prospect of revenge.

“He’s just a boy,” Allison pleads brokenly. Stiles frowns.

So was he.

He had been ‘just a boy’ when he’d been delivered— no, _abandoned_ , at the agency. 

He had been a child when he was recruited into a war he’d never wanted to be a part of. 

He had been innocent when they ruined him, teaching him how to hurt— _maim, destroy, control, manipulate, silence_ — others in as many ways as possible.

He had been young when he lost his mother, his last shred of hope for a normal life free from this war.

He had been ‘just a boy’ once, too.

Stiles bites his tongue. The taste of iron is bitter in his mouth.

Nobody had showed him mercy. Why should he?

Stiles’ fingers wrap around the gun at his waist.

A shriek shatters his concentration. It’s rage-filled and animalistic in its unbridled anger. Though it lacks the power behind Dawa and Scott’s cries, it doesn’t lack the intensity and emotion behind it. Stiles startles at the scream, fingers pulling away from his weapon to face the source.

Allison sags back against the wall, exhaustedly dropping her head into her hands as she shakes. The cracks in her armor have branched out and grown deeper. 

She’s losing control of herself, spiraling downwards.

Like a sinking ship, she’s going under, capsizing under the weight of everything.

The traumatic things they’ve encountered today and the stress from thinking that they might lose Scott. Or, maybe these cracks have been slowly forming for years now, only becoming obvious now, their damage exacerbated by the horrors they’ve dealt with on this mission.

“I’m so tired of this!” Allison shouts, fingers moving from her face to tug harshly at her hair. “This war is never going to end! Not like this. _Not like this!_ It’s never going to stop!”

Stiles raises his hands, calm and cautious like they had been with him only moments prior. How quickly the tables have turned. “Ally…”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she sobs. Tears cascade down her cheeks and her body is wracked, shaking badly with full-body sobs. 

The cracks are gone. Her facade is nothing more than a pile of ruins, laid bare and vulnerable to their gaze. 

Stiles is flabbergasted. He has no idea what to do in a situation like this. How does one comfort their best friend’s girlfriend during an emotional breakdown? His shoulders slump with defeat. He hates this feeling of uselessness.

Why couldn’t he have been the one unconscious? Scott would know what to do. Stiles doesn’t have a clue. He can barely keep himself from breaking down on most days.

He’s totally unprepared for this. 

Out of everyone, he would never have guessed that Allison would be the one to fall apart during a mission. And, in the end, it hadn’t taken much for the agency’s perfect soldier to come undone. 

Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. They all have their weaknesses, after all. And everyone knows that Scott is Allison’s biggest weakness of all. 

Stiles’ mouth twists sourly. It could have easily been him falling apart. He’s come close a number of times.

How much more, or how little, would it take for him to be next? 

What remains of his sanity seems to be barely held together by thin tendrils. How much more stress can those frayed lines take before they snap?

Before _he_ snaps completely?

“We’re just like them and they’re just like us,” Allison continues unsteadily. “We’re all guilty. If you kill him, you may as well kill us too, because they’ll come after us for this. They’ll want revenge.”

Stiles swallows thickly, his eyes darting to the others. Dawa’s lips are pulled thin and Derek’s pointedly staring at the ground, not making eye contact with anyone.

The worst part is, he understands what she’s saying. If they kill this hunter— this teenager— who may or may not have been involved in the hunter’s crimes, he’ll become a martyr for their cause. 

Hunters will use it as an excuse to attack more supernatural creatures, claiming that they were nothing more than monsters who killed an innocent kid, a pawn who had done nothing wrong other than getting in over his head. 

They would slaughter more supernaturals and the agency would retaliate.

The cycle would continue. On and on.

The agency was founded to aid a woman on her quest for revenge. Hundreds, if not thousands, of children have been forced into sacrificing a normal life to fight a war they weren’t responsible for. 

How many had died for Natalie Martin’s righteous cause because she, too, preached that “the ends justifies the means”?

If both sides constantly retaliate, an attack for an attack, when will it end? 

_When will it end?_

Stiles nods to himself and turns to the hunter.

“Get out.” 

The young hunter rushes to comply, clumsily rushing to his feet and then staring at them owlishly as though waiting for them to change their minds. When nobody moves, he lowers his his eyes and wordlessly stumbles out of the room.

Allison shoots him a grateful look and Stiles averts his eyes.

He tilts his head back. He closes his eyes and swallows past the lump in his throat.

The tightness in his chest loosens marginally, but he still wonders if that had been the right decision.

Allison’s sobs have lessened, becoming nothing more than a few hiccoughs and some sniffles as she regains her composure.

Silence hangs heavy in the air. Courageous in a way the others aren’t, Danny’s the one who breaks it. 

“I’ll erase these tapes.”

“Thank you,” Derek murmurs. 

Stiles and Allison stiltedly nod their thanks, both of them keenly aware how bad it would be if Lydia were to review the footage from this mission.

“I am done here. I will be waiting outside,” Dawa says tiredly. Her shoulders sag with an unnamed heaviness. Stiles’ body aches in sympathy.

Hesitantly, Danny asks, “What about your husband?”

“There is no need.” Dawa’s tone is deadened and cold. Stiles’ veins flood with ice, following her eyes as they briefly dart over the pile of discarded bodies and severed limbs. “I found him.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says thickly, like he’s apologizing for more than just her husbands.

Dawa stares back at him with an immeasurable emptiness. The silence drags on between them a few beats past uncomfortable, before she tilts her chin in curt acknowledgement. 

“Burn this place down when you are finished.”

“His body—”

“Is nothing more than an empty vessel now. My husbands are no longer here.”

Her departure is swift and leaves behind an overwhelming sense of dread. 

Is their mission over? 

If not— why? Do they really want to continue searching the building, subjecting themselves to whatever other atrocities they may discover?

Could there be any survivors in a house of horrors like this?

As though picking up on his uncertainty, Danny congenially speaks up, “What do you want to do? I’m leaving it up to you guys.”

“We’ll finish the search for survivors,” Derek answers. 

Stiles tenses, but doesn’t disagree. He can’t. As much of a nightmare as it has been for them, how could they risk leaving victims here to suffer alone?

“I’ll stay here with Scott. He should be waking up soon,” Allison says, wiping at her still-drying cheeks.

“Will you be okay?” Danny softly questions. 

Allison’s expression pinches, likely feeling vulnerable and self-conscious over the reminder of her recent breakdown. 

“I’ll be fine.” There’s no room for questions; her tone brokers no argument— not that Stiles is feeling particularly inclined to argue with her. Although the prospect of having to search the rest of the facility with Derek doesn’t seem to appealing at the moment. 

How quickly his attitude has changed since their little stint in one of the rooms earlier.

“Let’s get on with this then,” he mutters, striding towards the door as he tugs his gun from his belt and cradles it in his hands. 

He’s not taking any more chances.

 

They scour room after room, methodically checking every hidden corner, empty space, and nook and cranny they can find. No more hunters turn up and, mercifully, they don’t come across anything that remotely compares to the horrors in the glass chambers.

Despite the two of them being alone once again, Stiles’ libido has shriveled up and died. Not that it matters much, since things were tense between the two of them in a way it hasn’t been in a while.

It’s his own fault, he knows that. He shouldn’t have thrown the past in Derek’s face earlier, not when he’d already forgave him for his past mistakes. Logically, he knows he should apologize for what he’d said. Emotionally, however, the thought of having any kind of talk about feelings right now, when he’s already so drained, makes him cringe.

“Clear,” Derek announces, for the umpteenth time.

Stiles lowers his weapon and backs up until he’s leaning his weight against the sturdy wall behind him. How many rooms had they gone through so far? 

Fifteen? Twenty? 

How many more could there be?

What is the point of this? Why are they continuing on with this charade, acting like they were going to find something to make this trip worthwhile? 

It’s clear as day that this mission had been a mistake. He can’t be the only one who sees that.

“Move on to the next one.” 

Derek’s already heading back into the hallway before Danny’s finished speaking. The next room is across from them, only a few yards away. 

Stiles gloomily eyes the long path down the hall littered with door after door. At this rate, they’d be leaving in a week and with nothing to show for it.

“Are you coming or what?” Derek’s irritable voice chimes in through his earpiece.

Stiles rolls his eyes, but pushes off the wall and ambles lazily into the next room. He tightens his grip around his gun. As tired as he may be, he’s still cautious.

The next room is more barren than the last, with only an island and a handful of vials sitting in the middle of the room. Still, Derek diligently scans the corners of the room while Stiles stares at the test tubes consideringly. 

From the moment they’d stepped foot inside the building, he’d had the niggling feeling that something wasn’t right, and as he squinted at the vials, the sensation grows stronger.

Disquiet and frustration washes over him. Realization sits uncomfortably under the surface layer of his skin, he can _feel_ it. Like a word just on the tip of his tongue.

He sets his weapon on the steel counter, frowning down at the tubes. A few were filled with various brightly colored liquids while others were empty and scattered haphazardly off to the side.

Hadn’t he stolen similar tubes from their first mission together? That, too, had turned out to be a considerable waste of time. Except for the unexpected discovery and rescue of Cora, of course. 

But when he had hurriedly stolen the vials and tasked Walmart with keeping them safe, he’d been operating under the assumption that they’d be valuable in some way. 

But Deaton had run countless tests on them, unable to find anything remotely useful in them.

What was it that Deaton had said to him? That they were just random mixes of ingredients, seemingly tossed together with no real purpose?

Like decoys.

The niggling sensation grows increasingly stronger and louder, until his body thrums with it.

No, not _like_ decoys. 

They _were_ decoys.

Stiles snatches one of the tubes, eyeing the bright yellow label reading: ’WARNING: acidic substance’. A quick pass under his nostrils only strengthens his suspicions. There’s a mixture of sweet, fruity odors to it, like multiple artificial flavors had been dropped inside.

Possibly food coloring too, considering the deep blue color of the substance. 

“What’s going on?” Danny asks curiously, likely just noticing Stiles’ interest in the test tubes. Derek, who had been inspecting a broken cupboard hanging loosely along the wall, lifts his head.

“Nothin’,” Stiles lies breezily, and, without a second thought, dips his finger in the tube.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Derek exclaims over Danny’s own jumbled cry of protest. He grabs Stiles wrist and tears the vial from his hands, letting it shatter on the ground between them. His grip is painfully tight in his panic and Stiles’ bones creak in warning.

It’s the first Derek’s touched him since their argument over the kid hunter and, although it’s painful, Stiles relishes in the contact. He’s pissed and Derek’s furious, and the vindictive, hurtful part of Stiles claws itself to the surface, willing him to grab him back. To bruise him, bloody him, and break his bones. 

To express his anger in the way the agency had taught him. But, before he can react, Derek’s face drains of color and anger, and he releases Stiles’ wrist like it is coated in burning acid.

Stiles cradles his aching wrist, carefully maneuvering and testing the joint for injury. Despite the redness, it seems fine. There should be some bruising in the morning, but nothing more than that.

Derek eyes the movement, a guilt-ridden expression on his open face.

“I had a hunch,” Stiles says flatly, curtailing Derek’s apology before it can escape his parted lips. He doesn’t want to hear it. He’s tired of all the ‘sorry’s.

Derek’s eyes widen incredulously before the anger returns. Apparently, his sense of outrage is stronger than his remorse.

“You dipped your hand in acid _on a hunch?”_

“First of all, it was a _finger_. Not my whole hand,” Stiles snarks, wiggling all five of his perfectly-fine-and-not-burned fingers of his right hand, “and, secondly, I was right. They’re decoys.”

Derek rears back, aghast and bewildered in equal measure. “They’re _what?”_

“Decoys? What are you talking about?” Danny, the inquisitive Techie that he is, sounds intrigued.

“Obviously they knew we were coming, which is why everyone abandoned ship, but that got me thinking. Why wouldn’t they hide their experiments? Their notes and vials?”

“Because they had to leave in a rush,” Derek counters.

Stiles shrugs. “Could be. But for them to be this caught off guard twice? Suspicious. And the last time I stole vials from their labs, Deaton said they were abnormal, virtually useless mixtures. He couldn’t figure out what the hunters could’ve used them for.”

“If you’re right, and that’s a big _‘if’_ , why would they go through all the trouble of setting up fake scenes?” Danny asks.

A fair question.

One that Stiles himself isn’t entirely sure how to answer. Because Danny is right, it did seem outlandish. The only possibility he can think of is that the hunters wanted to create these artificial scenes, but didn’t want Supe agents to know about it.

Didn’t want them to know they were walking into a fabricated scenario.

Why?

What reason is there to do that? Unless they wanted to lure Stiles’ team into a trap. 

But the only threat they’ve found so far is the boy hunter.

It clicks then, as Allison’s words replay in his mind.

_“If you kill him, you may as well kill us too, because they’ll come after us for this. They’ll want revenge.”_

Stiles stands wide-eyed, recounting the events of the day, his finger stained blue with a strange, but harmless ‘acid’ imitation, and it suddenly occurs to him that Allison may have been right.

Not just right, but _on to something important_.

She mentioned thinking the hunter organization had set them up, had possibly _wanted_ them to kill the kid from earlier in order to further fuel to their vendetta. She may have been in the middle of a mental breakdown at the time, but her theory might be the sanest part of this insane mission.

Things are slowly, but surely, slotting into place like puzzle pieces: oddly shaped on their own, but when placed together in just the right way, the true picture is revealed.

He’s beginning to see a shape forming among the pieces, but it’s not enough to know what the completed picture will look like.

But Allison’s theory leads to more questions than answers. Why would the hunters go through all this trouble to fuel their hatred? Certainly they don’t need any more reasons to hate supernaturals. They must have enough reasons by now.

And for their elaborate plan to hinge solely on Supe agents killing some kid… no. It doesn’t make sense.

Unless…

Unless that wasn’t the trap.

Then what is? They’ve practically searched the entire building by now, and nothing else has happened.

There has to be more to this. Something they are missing.

Derek continues where Danny left off, oblivious to the ideas whirring about in Stiles’ head. “And how would they have known we were coming? This was a last minute mission, not even officially sanctioned. There should be no record of it. Nobody knew about this but us.”

Ah. About that…

Stiles wilts with shame. He must look positively contrite going by the complex look of consternation on Derek’s face.

He’s wrong. There was someone else who knew about this mission ahead of time. 

Matt Daehler.

The sketchy, untrustworthy motherfucker Stiles happened to run into right outside Lydia’s office, where he could have easily eavesdropped on the secretive conversation happening inside.

Stiles’ nails dig into his palms.

He’d been a fool not to have done anything, or said anything, about it. He naively brushed it off as unimportant, assuming that Matt wouldn’t have had time to use any information he’d heard against them, given the short amount of time before the start of their mission.

He’d been wrong.

This, all of this, was his fault.

He should never be allowed to make decisions when sleep deprived. Or maybe never, in general. Since he keeps screwing up.

In fact, he—

An echo of achingly familiar laughter puts an abrupt end to his pity party. His heart trips over itself, its beats as quick and fluttery as his breathing is. He knows that laughter. He’d heard it for years and silently adored the melodic quality of it. 

He still hears it sometimes, but only in his dreams.

But he isn’t dreaming now.

He’s certain of that fact, because he can feel the very real and unpleasant ache of exhaustion in his muscles and bones. 

Is he hallucinating? 

Anxiety settles in his stomach, heavy and constricting like weighted knots.

Despite being afraid of the response he might get, he rasps, “Do you hear that?”

Derek’s troubled expression is answer enough. Still, he pours salt in the wound by adding, “The walls in this building are soundproof. I can’t hear anything.”

Danny gently prompts, “Hear what?” 

Stiles’ head droops. That’s not a good sign, is it? That he’s the only one who hears it? 

He can’t ignore it. It calls to him like a siren’s song, tugging at his heart and giving him no choice but to follow and wade through the murky shallow to see what’s waiting for him at the deep end. 

Stiles blocks out everything else, including Danny and Derek, to focus on the sound of his mother’s laughter. He navigates through the maze, trapped and enraptured like a mouse. 

Derek trails close behind, which Stiles is silently thankful for. He’s not sure how he’s going to react to what he finds at the end of this.

Whoever, or whatever, that may be.

When he rounds a corner, he halts so suddenly that Derek crashes into his back, and the two of them trip clumsily over each other’s feet. 

“Stiles, what—” Derek’s hands clutch his sides and steady him, but Stiles doesn’t feel a thing.

He’s frozen, rooted to the spot, at a loss of words. 

Claudia’s standing a few yards away, close enough to make out the details of her face, but not touch. There are laugh lines around her mouth, a shine of recognition and happiness in her brown eyes, and she looks like she hasn’t aged a day.

“Miss Gajos?” Danny gasps.

“Claudia?” Derek breathes.

Stiles shivers. Whether from the warmth of the breath against his neck or the confirmation that what he is seeing is _real,_ he’s not sure.

“Mom?” he croaks.

Had they been wrong all along?

Had she been alive this whole time?

He takes a tentative step forward.

_“My darling boy.”_

Sneakers squeak against the tiled floor as they come to an abrupt halt.

Stiles’ fists clench and unclench at his sides. Disappointment bubbles and festers within him, and he hates that he had thought— had dared to hope—

It had been too good to be true. He should’ve known that. 

How had he allowed himself to forget that the Gajos family would never be reunited again?

It was Claudia’s voice, as soft and commanding as he remembered, but her lips hadn’t moved along with the words. Like a memory playing over surround sound, it had echoed around them.

That’s essentially what this is. Theatrics.

“Walmart.”

Walmart-Claudia’s head tilts slightly. Her smile widens. 

The accuracy, detail, and color of his illusion is breathtakingly realistic. Stiles would be impressed if he weren’t so disappointed.

A deep gash tears its way across her neck, spreading and its edges curving upwards as her lips do the same. Black blood pours from the wound, dripping down and defiling her pearl-white dress with stains that will never wash out.

Were her clothes drenched like that, caked in her own blood, when Peter had heartlessly buried her in the woods?

“What the hell is going on?” Derek’s hands tighten around Stiles’ waist and reel him back until the hot line of his body pressed against his own. 

“He took his collar off,” Danny notes lowly. “I didn’t notice. I’m sorry. I would’ve warned you.”

Derek grunts dismissively, focusing on Stiles instead. “What’s he doing?”

But Stiles is too shaken up to form a witty reply. 

Although he’s not certain if Walmart can feel things like pain or emotions, he’s sure the familiar enjoys torturing him. Their history is proof of that. But Walmart’s always had his limits. Or, more accurately, he had _one_ limit. 

One line he didn’t cross, and that was Claudia.

Since the day she disappeared, he had never replicated her image. It was as if she were a holy figure to him and to imitate her would’ve been blasphemous. 

So, why do this now?

Why here?

Why like this?

Stiles’ body thrums with the desire to aim his gun and fire, to make his familiar hurt as much as this hurts him.

But they have a truce, and he’d respect that, even if Walmart wouldn’t.

He made a promise to be a better witch to his demented, shadow-puppet of a familiar, and it wasn’t going to be easy. Nothing ever was, with Walmart.

His fingers graze the top of the gun at his waist, but, as the fight drains out of him, his hands fall limp at his sides.

For so long, he unfairly blamed Walmart for things beyond his control. He hated Walmart for not being normal, for never communicating what he wanted in a simple way.

But what if he’s been communicating as best he could?

What if he’s attempting to communicate now, knowing nothing would capture Stiles’ attention quite like Claudia would? 

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me,” he says brokenly. His voice is breathless, fearful that he’s wrong, yet again.

But what if he isn’t wrong? What if he isn’t misunderstanding this time, and the doors of understanding have finally cracked open?

Claudia’s smile vanishes, shifting into something more serious. She stares back at him, unblinking.

The mixed signals are so strong, they could give him whiplash.

“Well, what is it? You have my attention. I’m listening to you.” Agitation colors his tone, spreading through his body the longer the silence drags on.

He really is an idiot, isn’t he? Wasting their time like this.

As he considers walking away, movement catches his attention.

Black blood, like a waterfall, spills out of her mouth. She grabs at her throat, her lips moving like she wants to speak but the fluid is choking her. Darkness cascades down her body, soaking into her until she’s just another one of Walmart’s classic silhouettes from the neck down. 

Revolted, Danny swears and Derek presses his face to the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles’ eyes flutter shut as he begs the Universe to grant him patience.

“You know I suck at charades. Come on, Sam’s Club. I’m _trying_. Work with me.” 

Claudia’s bloodied, wet gasps stop. Stiles gapes, both eyes and mouth wide with disbelief. Had his pleas worked?

The darkness is gone, as is the injury to her throat. Smiling like nothing’s wrong, she extends an open hand towards him. It’s a quiet and calm gesture, exactly as Claudia used to approach Walmart.

Suddenly, Stiles doubts all the times he’d called Walmart heartless. Clearly he’s capable of feeling _something_. Something like… love. Or admiration.

Exactly how much had Walmart cared for Claudia?

How deeply had her death impacted him?

Walmart effortlessly replicates her poise and her gentleness, perfectly reproducing everything from the tiniest details to the overall essence of her. 

Walmart may like tormenting him, but Stiles understands now that the _one_ thing the blackbird has always loved, and will always love, more… was Claudia.

Stiles is locked in place, completely engrossed in the scene.

The illusion briefly flickers and Claudia’s hand lowers to her side. 

Her voice echoes around them once more. Her mouth moves along, but it’s clumsy and disjointed, like a movie with its audio out of sync. 

_“I need you two to trust me, okay? Pack your things— only what’s absolutely necessary— and we’ll leave tonight, after I come back. Do **not** tell anyone about this, am I clear?”_

It’s a memory from seven years ago, yet it feels like only yesterday. 

Stiles’ throat clicks and he automatically responds, just as he had when he was fourteen.

“Yes, Mom.”

_“Good.”_

She nods, eyes alight with hope. 

_“Can I pack Scribbles?”_

Stiles almost breaks down at Heather’s child-like voice. His weakened knees threaten to give out on him. Somehow he pushes through.

A playful bark bounces off the walls. A small creature bursts into existence and hops in a circle around Claudia’s feet. It’s like a poorly-drawn cartoon of a bunny and puppy hybrid. Long floppy ears and a button nose, a fat body with a fluffy, wagging tail. Bright orange stitch-marks run across areas of its brown-and-white fur, and black inky scribbles replace a regular pair of eyes.

Scribbles had been one of Heather’s favorite creations, though she never drew him again after that day. 

Claudia’s smile falters. 

_“I suppose you could… but only if you put him back on paper.”_

_“Deal!”_

Just as he had seven years ago, Scribbles pops out of existence, never to be seen again.

_“I have to go now. I love you both. Be good, okay?”_

Stiles’ eyes burn and he forces himself to stay put, to not run into his mother’s arms and beg her not to go. 

As agonizing as it is to relive the last moments he’d seen his mother alive, he doesn’t want it to end. He’s not ready to say good-bye again.

“I love you too, Mom,” he whispers brokenly. He wipes at the stray tear as it tumbles down his cheek.

_“Bye, Mom. See you later!”_

Stiles chokes on a sob. Heather had regretted that for years after, tearfully confessing to him once how desperately she’d wished she had said “I love you” back. 

His chest aches with longing so strong it’s become real physical pain. 

“It’s okay,” Derek breathes against his ear, arms holding him tighter. More tears fall and Stiles grabs Derek’s arms, latching on as though they’re the only things keeping him grounded.

Walmart-Claudia pauses, likely unsure how to progress when Stiles’ memory ends there.

Stiles melts into Derek when he presses his nose to the skin below Stiles’ ear, greedy for whatever affection he can get.

Danny murmurs, “What is he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

Walmart settles on another memory. 

Stiles’ fingers dig marks into Derek’s forearms. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Claudia’s appearance changes and Stiles sucks in a breath at how _young_ she is. 

She’s far younger than he remembers. Logically, he’s always known that she was twenty-four when he’d arrived at the agency. 

He had been four years old and, to a child, she’d seemed so much older at the time. He sees now that hadn’t been the case.

Claudia extends her hand once more. 

_“Hey there. I’m Claudia. I’m going to be your teacher. I’m sure we’re going to have lots of fun together, but how about we find you some clean clothes first, hmm?”_

That’s the first thing she’d ever said to him. Walmart’s forcing him to not only relive his last memory of her, but also the first. 

Is he trying to help Stiles finally say goodbye? Does he know how a tiny part of Stiles’ brain still pretends she’s happy and alive somewhere? Or is it something else?

Stiles warily eyes the outstretched hand, cautious of what might happen if he takes it. 

That must be what Walmart wants, right? For him to take Claudia’s hand? 

_“You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m just like you.”_

She shifts her eyes, letting darkness swallow them whole. Stiles exhales shakily and takes her hand, like he had so many years before. 

Her hand isn’t warm, but not cold either. 

Solid, but without any weight.

It’s just… there and difficult to explain. Like Walmart himself.

Claudia grins widely at him. Her eyes turn back to brown. 

She tugs his hand lightly, just enough to unglue Stiles’ feet from the floor, and leads him down the hallway. Stiles follows in a daze, repeatedly glancing back at Derek to ensure that he’s following close behind.

He is.

“Has he ever done this before?” Danny asks, a nervous pitch to his words. 

“No. Never.” 

Danny groans.

This is beyond unusual, it’s unprecedented. Walmart’s never touched him in a way that wasn’t painful and fleeting. His apparitions have never interacted with him, never tried to speak to him, never reenacted a memory. 

His familiar is changing. Evolving. In ways Stiles can’t predict or comprehend. Until now, he’d been changing for the _worse._ Or so Stiles had thought.

He doesn’t know what to make of this.

“Where are you taking me?” he tries.

No response.

“I don’t like this,” Derek grits out.

“Noted.”

“Me neither,” Danny grumbles.

“Oh, come on. What’s the worst that could happen?” Stiles asks, trying for levity to ease his own fear more than theirs. It doesn’t work.

“Don’t say that! What is wrong with you?!” Danny wails.

Claudia slows as they approach a stairwell. She hikes up her lengthy skirt to go down the steps. The real Claudia had done that too. How much had Walmart noticed all these years? How closely had he been paying attention?

Stiles glances at Derek, who offers a tight smile.

Neither of them are reassured.

Nor is Danny.

“You’re going to get murdered,” Danny whines as they descend the steps into darkness.

“Not helpful,” Stiles admonishes.

“Just saying…”

The basement is freezing. Their warm breaths turn into clouds and their steps echo like thunder in the eerie silence of the stone passageway. 

There are no lights, forcing Derek to stick close behind him in order to prevent him from smashing his face against the floor every time he trips. After a few close calls, he finally finds the small flashlight attached to his belt. 

With a tiny press of a button, the hallway comes to life. 

Stiles grimaces. 

The passageway is unpleasant, to put it mildly. It must have been abandoned a long time ago, going by the thick layer of grime blanketing the ground and the various fungi and mold growing like weeds in the cracks of the walls. 

He tugs his shirt over his nose in an attempt at minimizing his risk of dying prematurely.

“Nope. That isn’t better. Turn it off!” Danny complains.

“I’m not turning the light off.”

“This is basically a scene from a horror movie!”

“My familiar won’t kill me,” Stiles refutes, though it sounds uncertain and feeble to his own ears.

Derek frowns sharply at him, catching his doubt.

Stiles gives a shaky thumbs up and what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

The frown deepens.

Oops.

Claudia stops in front of a giant stone door. Her eyes are wide and expectant.

“What’s inside?” Stiles questions, stalling for time as he gathers his courage. There’s not much left, to be honest. He desperately doesn’t want to discover what monstrosities await on the other side.

But he has no choice. Walmart is communicating with _him_. Walmart reached out to _him_. Walmart led _him_ here.

Claudia closes her eyes and, with a sense of finality, she, like Scribbles, vanishes into thin air.

Stiles’ stomach twists and his heart pounds. He might faint soon if he doesn’t get this over with. Or vomit. Or pass out _while_ vomiting. Or—

“I don’t want to do this,” he admits, voice shaking as much as he is. 

Derek takes his hand, his palm a warm and reassuring weight in the way that Walmart’s wasn’t. 

“We’ll do this together.” 

Stiles pulls his shirt collar back down and observes the way their fingers intertwine perfectly, like they were always meant to be connected this way.

He nods, pulling himself together. “You and me. Together. On three.”

“One…”

“Open the door!” Danny cries. “I’m dying here!”

 

The door creaks open. 

The room is darker than the hallway had been. Quieter too, despite the faintly visible outline of human-like silhouettes. When he raises his flashlight, the figures groan and duck, shielding themselves from the harsh light. Blurry edges become sharp and detailed, but it’s difficult to wrap his head around what he’s seeing.

As if perplexed by the intruders’ silence, a few of the figures lift their eyes.

There are too many pairs of eyes gazing to count. They’re hard to look at, filled with fear and uncertainty. 

The smell of urine and feces hits like a punch to the gut, forcing him back a step. He doesn’t dare imagine how much worse it must be for Derek’s heightened senses. 

Derek snatches his flashlight from him and shoves the door open wider, his movements rushed and determined. 

Stiles follows his lead, moving closer. and it’s then that recognition sets in.

He knows these people. 

Not all, but some. Many he’d seen walking through the halls of the agency. Some recently, some years ago. A few are agents that had escaped, others had been captured and presumed dead. 

Clearly, that had been wishful thinking. Death would’ve been more merciful than this.

Clammy hands latch onto the doorway as Stiles struggles to remain standing. One of the sleeping hostages resting in the lap of another, their head pressed to another’s stomach shifts at the commotion. They roll over and groggily blink their eyes open, squinting up at the flashlight. 

Stiles’ heart drops like a stone, landing somewhere in the soles of his feet.

Despite the sunken face and dull eyes, the figure is instantly recognizable.

Isaac Lahey.

Isaac, Derek’s beta, who ran away weeks ago in an attempt to return to the Outside. Had he gotten a taste of freedom before he was brought here, or had he been captured right away? 

And, if the hunters had found him… had they found Heather too?

Isaac’s always been lanky kid, most of his body made up of long limbs and sinewy muscle that never grew no matter how much junk food he shoveled into his mouth. There’s no muscle on him now. Like a living skeleton, he is frighteningly thin, boney and brittle from malnourishment and neglect. 

Like the deer woman.

Isaac’s head remains pillowed in another’s lap, seemingly too exhausted to attempt sitting up. The other’s slender, skeletal fingers run soothingly through his dirt and blood-streaked hair. 

The sound of Derek’s sharp inhale distantly registers in Stiles’ mind, but he’s too captivated to look away from Isaac and this person. The fingers halt their motion as the figure looks up. Stiles is rooted to the spot, incapable of doing anything but stare owlishly at the scene in front of him.

Of all the possible scenarios that could have happened on this mission, he hadn’t considered this.

His knees finally give out, but Derek grabs him before he hits the floor. He’s saying something, his eyes wild and face pale, but the words are drowned out by the ringing in Stiles’ ears. 

The urge to throw up intensifies as he examines the woman. Her long dark hair tangled and dry, her expression deadened in a way he’s never seen. The skin around her eyes is dark and sunken in, like Isaac’s. 

She’s changed, but there’s no mistaking her.

A broken noise escapes Stiles’ throat— or had Derek made that sound? He’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything anymore, because this _can’t_ be real. 

This must be a dream. Or a nightmare.

Or maybe he truly has lost his mind, because—

Because she’s dead. 

_Dead-_ dead _._

Derek had felt their bond snap. Her alpha status had passed on to him. And Stiles— he was the one who killed her.

“ _Laura?”_

Stiles shoots Derek a look of desperation. Is he seeing this too?

He must be, because he looks wrecked, gutted, like the sight of his emaciated sister and beta has physically ripped him open from the inside.

Derek’s eyes burn red, adding a soft red tint to the dim room. 

Laura’s eyes glow in response. Stiles sucks in a gasp and claws his hand into his own arm until he sees blood. His forearm throbs with heat and pain.

Holy fucking shitballs. This is real.

Alpha red.

What the fuck.

“What the fuck,” Stiles wheezes.

Isaac’s eyes light up next. Then another shifter’s, and another. 

And another after that.

Each of them, every single one, is alpha red.

“What. The. _Fuck_.” 

The next puzzle piece slots into place and the picture is coming into focus.

The hunter boy wasn’t the trap. 

This is. 

These _alphas_ are. 

Hadn’t that been one of Walmart’s warnings so long ago? When his blood and innards had splattered along the walls of the infirmary, goopy chunks slithering around until they formed that one word, over and over again.

‘Alpha’, they had written.

And here those alphas were. Plus Cora and Dawa.

So Walmart _has_ been trying to communicate with him. Has been trying to tell him something. 

And now that he’s finally starting to understand Walmart’s intentions, it might be too late.

Because, trap or not, dangerous or not, there’s no way they could leave these people behind. Not Laura, not Isaac, no one. And that’s what the hunters want.

A large, dark shadow behind the human shifters moves, and it quickly becomes apparent that it’s not a shadow at all. It’s a huge, fully shifted creature. 

It moves sluggishly, as though wounded, but manages to sit up fairly quickly considering—

Considering it’s missing an arm.

Danny, yet again, is the one to bravely break the astonished silence.

“Is that a _yeti?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful comments on the last chapter! I thought I’d lose some of y’all after that lil gap in posting, but it turns out you guys are loyal AF. So THANK YOU for your patience and lovely comments! Your feedback truly keeps me going! 
> 
> For extra tears: [This](https://youtu.be/SRH23rVGtvw?t=15) is the song I listened to on repeat while writing the scene with Claudia.
> 
> **What do you think of this chapter? :) Who did you side with: Dawa and Stiles or Derek and Allison? Tell me your thoughts!**


	15. What is Owed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THINGS GET STEAMY, GUYS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE THE NEW RATING EVERYBODY. IT’S HAPPENING. The boys are finally gettin’ down with the get down.
> 
> If it matters to you what kind of sex they have, you can read the end notes.

Days fly by after returning to the agency with the alphas and Stiles has made frustratingly little progress in regards to uncovering the mole, despite his best efforts.

Sweat drips down his forehead, hands burning from the strain of his magic, but he maintains it. Hidden due to a spell, he prowls after Matt. He’s been tailing him sporadically over the past five days, dedicating more time to the task than he wants to admit. Especially since he’s found nothing to show for it.

As far as he can tell, Matt is normal. Almost boring in how routine his life is. He does the same thing every day: start the day with a 5am workout, eat breakfast, read various French novels and textbooks in the library, eat lunch, train with weapons, nap, have dinner, and hang out in the lounge for an hour or two before bed.

Even his restroom visits happen on a regular schedule. However, despite being highly abnormal, it’s not _suspicious_.

Matt strides towards Lydia’s office with an air of purpose. Stiles cocks his head at the sight of Lydia’s office door completely pulverized. Large wooden debris litter the doorway, spilling out into the hall, a giant hole where solid wood used to be. Unfazed, Matt steps over it and saunters inside.

He seems oddly comfortable visiting the director, not bothering to knock or announce his presence first.

Stiles sneaks closer, watching curiously as Lydia and Matt chat like old friends. They’re not speaking loud enough for Stiles’ human ears to catch, and he doesn’t want to risk getting too close, but it doesn’t escape his notice how friendly the two seem.

Exactly how often does Matt visit her? And why?

Stiles leans back against the wall outside, smearing a hand over his sweaty forehead. Waves of magic ripple over him and dissipate, revealing him to the world once more. His palms ache, tender and sore from the daily use of spells. He should take a few days off to rest and recoup. Maybe he can find a better, non-magical way to stalk— _surveil_ — Matt.

He purses his lips, calculated eyes scanning the ceiling. Using the air ducts might be an option to consider in the future. That was always a popular choice in movies.

Faint whimpers capture his attention. He abandons recon to follow the sound down the hall, stopping in front of a janitor’s closet. Cautious of what may be on the other side, he cracks open the door.

Laura’s curled against the wall, her arms wrapped around bent legs and her cheek resting on top of her knees. It doesn’t look comfortable, but she’s fast asleep. She releases a pitiful whine and Stiles gently touches her shoulder, pulling back with a swear when she viciously swipes with clawed fingers.

Her breathing is heavy, eyes wild as she takes in her surroundings. Realizing who had woken her, her hands lower and curl against the floor. Sharp nails scratch against the wood. It’s an unpleasant sound.

“Sorry,” she says hoarsely.

“It’s fine. You good?” She accepts his outstretched hand with human fingers. “Nightmare?”

She smiles, though it’s tight-lipped and strained. “Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

He shifts awkwardly, feeling off-kilter around her in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He’s not sure how to handle this curt, less-talkative version of his best friend. It’s like treading on eggshells, but with landmines scattered around among them. He’s terrified of accidentally taking that wrong step around her.

There’s an unhinged quality to her, like she has one foot based in reality, the other one stuck behind, lost in her memories.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m two seconds from shattering! I’m not damaged goods and I’m not broken. Stop looking at me like I am! Everyone pities me now. I didn’t expect it from you too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through; what I’ve survived. I can sure as hell handle your stupid ass. Don’t baby me.”

Stiles nods, properly chastised.

“I was heading to the shooting range.” An obvious lie. Neither of them acknowledge it. “Want to come with me and shoot stuff?”

Laura eyes him sharply, knowingly, but shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

The firing range is one of Stiles’ favorite places to blow off steam. It clears his mind, keeps his hands occupied and gives his mind something tangible to focus on.

When his gun clicks empty, he lowers it onto the counter and leans against the short divide between lanes. Laura fires round after round into the moving targets. Their movements are loud and mechanical; their noisy, disjointed clangs audible despite heavy-duty ear protection.

It eases something in her too, removing the distant look in her eyes and grounding her. Lines of concentration are etched into her features, but there’s a looseness in her shoulders, the prior tension gone.

They were taught to view the weapon as an extension of themselves, and they do. When her gun empties of its final round, she hits the release and unloads the magazine. She hands it off to Stiles and he trades over a new one that she immediately reloads.

Without hesitating, she picks up where she left off, effortlessly hitting her marks with deadly precision. With her claws and strength, she rarely has to resort to utilizing firearms. But there’s something to be said for putting distance between them and their targets, for not having to visibly see and feel the blood on their hands.

When her gun clicks again, braces her hands on the edge of the counter. She shakes from the effort of holding herself together. She ducks her head and stays there, using the counter as a crutch to keep her standing.

This isn’t the same Laura he remembers.

After she and the other alphas had returned, they’d been forced into quarantine for two days. Lydia, like Stiles, had been suspicious of their easy escape. Why had the hunters left them behind? Why had the hunters abandoned the building instead of fighting back? Their rescue was too simple, as though the alphas were meant to be found.

Even so, Stiles hadn’t breathed a word of his suspicions to anyone. It wouldn’t help, not when they had no idea how the alphas could be used against them. They could be infected, could be pod-people who replaced the originals, or could be mind-controlled, but Deaton had examined them thoroughly with x-rays, scans, and hundreds of blood tests.

Nothing about them was abnormal, other than the circumstances in which they’d been found.

So Stiles kept quiet. Why risk his suspicions spreading through the compound, turning everyone against these refugees and traumatizing them further? They had been through enough already. And, selfishly, he missed his best friend and wanted to spend time with her without prying eyes or distrustful whispers from others. Or without _more_ distrustful whispers than he usually gets.

That’s not to say he hadn’t done his due diligence, however. He had. The first time he’d been alone with Laura after her quarantine, he’d grilled her for hours, probing for any sign that this wasn’t _his_ Laura.

All doubt vanished when she recited, in vivid detail, all the things he’d once told her he wanted to do to Derek. It wasn’t even sexual. Hell, if it had been his sexual fantasies, he might’ve been less mortified.

Instead, she’d perfectly recounted how Stiles had daydreamed about embarrassingly domestic things like how well Derek’s hand might fit with his, how Derek would probably be a great hugger, and how handsome he is going to look with peppered gray hair.

Describing his sexual fantasies would’ve been more merciful. The only blessing had been that they were alone at the time, but who knew what secrets she might let slip if he’d continued interrogating her.

She was the real deal, as far as he could tell.

His best friend was back.

Back, but different. She’ll never be the same as she was before she’d been captured. But he wasn’t the same person he was before he’d lost Claudia. Trauma changes people. Not always for worse. He isn’t worse, only different. Laura’s the same. She’s not better nor worse; not broken nor damaged. Only different.

When she speaks, it isn’t what he’s expecting.

“You don’t remember anything from before the agency, right?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Deaton says it might’ve been too traumatic. That I blocked it out.”

Laura stares at her fingers splaying wide along the counter top. “I don’t remember anything about the den.”

“I know.”

Derek told him, suggesting he tread lightly around the subject and not ask about it. Stiles had listened, not wanting to cause her more discomfort.

He’s relieved she still trusts him enough to be open with him.

“I can’t recall details, but I know it was bad. I get these faint impressions sometimes. I’ll be talking and suddenly I remember how sore my throat was from screaming. I’ll take a shower and the beads of water will _hurt. S_ harp pains, like I’m being stabbed repeatedly. And, at night, I remember the _hopelessness;_ feeling as if I’d never escape. That I’d rather be dead.”

Stiles remains still despite desperately wishing he could comfort her, but his touch might not be welcome. It might upset her further.

“If that’s what I remember, how bad are the things I’m forgetting?” Her calculated gaze lands on him. He’s uncomfortable, feeling vulnerable under her scrutiny. “How bad must things be before our brains decide to block it out?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles utters. He’s never given it much thought. He figured that, if his past had been worth knowing, his mind wouldn’t have shut it out.

Laura pushes away from the counter. She hands him the gun to restock while she scribbles their names into the logbook.

“Lydia’s been looking for you, by the way.”

“What for?”

Laura snorts. “Mind reading isn’t one of my supernatural abilities.”

“Oh, that doesn’t come along with the whole ‘alpha powers’ thing?”

They close the door behind them, meandering down the hallway without a destination, simply enjoying each other’s company like they used to.

“Please. If it had, maybe you and my brother would’ve gotten together sooner.”

Stiles gulps. He hadn’t told her about his _thing_ with Derek yet. Had her brother spilled the beans? And, if he did, what exactly did he say?

“Speaking of which…” Her voice is calm. Too calm. Stiles steps back, just in time to dodge her swinging fist. She stomps forward, undeterred, as he skitters backwards. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you two were dating! We’re supposed to be _friends_!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

In a moment of stupidity, he dashes for the cafeteria. It's a bad move and he knows it the moment he turns his back on a predator. He yelps, face flattening against the floor as she tackles him.

“I can hear you lie, dickwad. That _is_ one of my supernatural abilities, remember?” A bony knee digs into his kidney and he wheezes. “When were you going to tell me?”

He goes limp, deflating at the hurt in her voice.

“We’re supposed to be best friends. Partners. Do you not trust me anymore?”

Her words are laced with sadness and doubt and he hates that he’s made her sound like that. He smushes his face harder against the cold tile. He’s such an asshole.

“Can we do this face-to-face?”

Laura complies and allows him to sit up, cross-legged and guilty-faced. Her eyes are downcast and focused on the vaguely face-shaped smear he’d left behind on the tiles.

“I’m sorry.”

Laura lifts her gaze. Hurt brown eyes meet his.

“Then why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It really isn’t. What happened to _me_ is complicated. Your relationship— or whatever— with Derek is not.”

“It kinda is though,” Stiles grumbles.

“Whatever. You have no excuses. We’ve been back for a week and you’re telling me you two still haven’t _uncomplicated_ whatever is between you two?”

“Uh. No?”

“What’ve you been doing? No, wait. I don’t want to know.”

Stiles’ cheeks heat at the implication. “Nothing! We’ve just been friendly, I guess. We haven’t really been alone. He’s always with you or Cora, and I’ve been—” stalking Matt Daehler “—doing some recon.”

“Recon,” Laura parrots dubiously.

“Mhmm. Totally healthy and socially acceptable reconnaissance.”

“You two need to get your shit together ASAP.”

“We didn’t _not_ get our shit together,” Stiles hedges. “We’re almost there. Our bag of shit is partially packed. Or, it’s fully packed, but some of it is liquidy, and seeping out, so we need to find a waterproof bag instead.”

“Please stop.”

“I can’t. Talking about feelings makes me nervous.”

At Laura’s annoyed expression, he sighs and starts from the beginning. He intends to summarize things, but ends up explaining, in detail, all of what had happened between him and Derek while she was gone.

He tells her about everyone blaming him for her death, and how Harris had reassigned him as Derek’s partner as punishment. He rushes through the worst of it— how Derek and Danny had threatened him, how Derek had tried to kill him over _Greenberg_ of all people, and how Peter had clawed him in order to reveal the truth.

He details how things had evolved lightning fast and torturously slow all at once. The way the spark between them ignited in the woods with the sirens’ influence, the quiet flirting and touches that came after that, the desperate confession fueled by Stiles’ devastation at the discovery of his mother’s murder. Eventually, he comes to where they are now: the two of them in a strange limbo, knowing they are _something_ , but unable to define what it is.

By the end of it, Laura’s eyes are watery and she sounds distinctly upset.

“He shot your familiar?!” she exclaims.

“Why does everyone focus on that? Walmart’s fine.”

“You could’ve died. A dead familiar means a dead witch!”

“Some witches survive!”

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t help the situation.

“For maybe ten minutes and then they die!”

She’s overreacting and exaggerating the truth. Plenty of witches survive losing their familiars. They’re just comatose.

Still, they _survived_.

“I’m going to throw him through a wall!” Laura seethes. “Someone needs to remind him that we don’t shoot beloved little murder birds.”

Stiles’ jaw hangs open. Of all the things to be mad at, that’s the one she focuses on? Walmart was fine; Stiles got _permanently_ clawed!

Not that he’s upset about that. He isn’t. The scars turned out pretty badass, but that’s not the point. The point is—

“It was an accident!”

Laura’s teeth are ominously sharp. “And I’m going to _accidentally_ throw him through a wall.”

“I...” Stiles flounders. “How does that work?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Could you at least pick a thin wall?”

“No,” Laura says, affronted at the mere suggestion. “It’s going to be the thick concrete wall at the end of the East Wing. He’ll never learn otherwise.”

“One might argue he’s learned his lesson already.”

“Not from me, he hasn’t.”

Stiles sighs, giving in. The only person who is more mulish than him is Laura. She’s made up her mind and he’s not going to change it. Sensing she’s won their argument, Laura rises to her feet.

“For the record, I never blamed you for what happened to me. Not even for a milisecond. I love you, Stiles. You’re my best friend and you always will be.” She playfully ruffles his hair. “I just want you to be my future brother-in-law too.”

Stiles blinks rapidly and sniffles, swiping at his nose. Wow, his allergies are awful today.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a friendly chat with my brother.” She swivels on the balls of her feet, her black hair swishing over her shoulder. After only a step or two, she pauses. “Oh, and one more thing: if your shit is ‘liquidy’, try adding more fiber to your diet.”

Yeah, Stiles’ best friend is back.

Not the same as before, not lesser or better, only different.

Different, but just as loved.

o0o0o0o

Stiles is in the zone. His feet pound rhythmically on the treadmill, his mind focused on the pleasant burn in his lungs and calves. Five more miles to go. He’s so engrossed in his workout, he doesn’t hear the gym’s doors opening nor the approaching footsteps.

Someone taps his shoulder and his heart jumps into his throat.

“Holy shit!”

He stumbles and his magic reacts, bursting to life and vanishing him. He loses his balance and the treadmill’s moving belt pushes him off, sending him crashing to the ground. The whir of the machine behind him sounds like mocking laughter.

His lower back aches and he waves a hand, dispelling his magic. It speaks to how much he’s been casting that invisibility charm lately for his magic to instinctively hide him instead of doing something more useful, like summoning a pile of pillows.

“Two out of ten. You would have scored a three, if you had stuck the landing,” Dawa says, standing over him.

Her husband, Samdup, stands poised beside her. He’s tall and lanky, his build similar to Isaac’s, and his black hair has been replaced by a buzz cut. Shortly after he had arrived with the other alpha refugees, he had shifted out of his yeti form, revealing heavily matted hair and dirt-stained skin.

Many of the others had been in similar condition. After receiving assistance from nurse Melissa, the alphas had quickly returned to looking normal. Or, almost normal. It’s difficult to hide the evidence months— and in some cases, years— of horrible malnourishment, abuse, and neglect.

Samdup, having been left with only one arm after his imprisonment, simply requested his hair be shaved off.

While the loss of his arm must have been devastating, neither he nor Dawa seem to give it much thought. It would make sense, Stiles supposes. What’s a missing arm compared to being reunited with a loved one?

Besides, he seems to manage fine without the limb. Who needs two arms, really?

Alfie agrees, gurgling happily in Samdup’s grasp.

“Is it time for baby pilates class already?” Stiles quips, rising to his feet.

“Afraid not,” Samdup says with a lopsided smile.

Though their interactions have been short and limited in number, Stiles likes Samdup. He’s a quiet guy, though it’s unclear if he’d been that way before the hunters, or if the encounter made him so. Either way, he’s polite and, occasionally, quite funny.

Alfie squirms in Samdup’s hold, making unhappy sounds that warn of an impending meltdown.

“Hush now,” Dawa coos, pulling him into her arms and lightly bouncing him until his whines turn to silence.

“So, not to sound rude or anything, but what exactly are you guys here for? This isn’t exactly a popular place for babies.”

“Your pretty little dictator threatened me,” Dawa states, as though it’s a perfectly sensible answer to his question. It isn’t. Stiles watches, bewildered, as she lifts Alfie up, close enough that their noses brush. He giggles brightly as she enthusiastically baby talks to him. “She is lucky I did not pluck her eyes from her skull. Yes, she is a lucky, _lucky_ girl!”

“She is joking,” Samdup tries.

“I am not,” Dawa states. “She has pretty eyes. They would make nice earrings.”

Stiles decides it’s best to ignore that last statement and change the subject.

“You seem to have bonded pretty quickly.” He gestures at the babbling baby in her hold. It’s nice to see Alfie smiling and being taken care of, even if only for a short time.

“His eyes look like Tsering’s,” Dawa says as she lovingly nuzzles his cheek.

“They do.” Samdup brushes his hand along her back. Stiles observes them with a sad smile. As happy as their reunion was, it must be difficult to cope with their loss. “Tsering would have adored him.”

“I think so too,” Dawa sighs. “He is a very lovable baby.”

“Quite intuitive too,” Samdup adds.

“Right,” Stiles says dubiously.

Dawa shoots him a sly grin. “He smeared poop all over the floor in Lydia’s office.”

“It was everywhere _._ ”

“We suspect he might be able to detect evil.”

“I’m honestly at a loss here,” Stiles admits. How does anyone respond to that? “And I’m surprised she let you use her office unsupervised. She’s usually pretty anal about that.”

“Oh, she did not let us. I smashed her door open,” Samdup says breezily.

What.

“He broke it into teeny-tiny pieces. Such a strong, mighty yeti,” Dawa sing-songs at Alfie. Her tone sharpens, like her smile, as she grins toothily at Stiles. “Samdup cannot help his anger.”

Samdup solemnly shakes his head. “An unfortunate result of being tortured.”

“Understandable,” Stiles says, though he suspects it has less to do with PTSD and more to do with Lydia herself.

Samdup eyes the clock on the wall. “We should be leaving soon, my love.”

“Oh, yes. The twins’ classes are ending soon. Time flies,” Dawa says absently. To Stiles, she says, “We wished to ask if you were attached to the zombie children.”

“Zombie children?” Stiles echoes back, puzzled.

“Siren children,” Samdup corrects.

“Both are dead. What is the difference, really?” Dawa dismisses.

Stiles frowns. “I don’t understand. Attached in what way?”

Dawa’ gaze is intense. Her eyebrows raise pointedly as she speaks. “For instance, _if_ they were to go missing, would you be upset?”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. Is she suggesting what he thinks she is? “Missing how, exactly?”

“This is no place for children to grow,” Dawa hedges.

“It is awful,” Samdup agrees.

“Dehumanizing.”

“Claustrophobic.”

“A life in the mountains would be much better for them. They would be free.”

Samdup’s eyes dart to the camera perched in the corner. “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course,” Stiles parrots, calm despite the wild pounding of his heart. “ _Hypothetically_ , I would be happy for them. If they were to find a new home. In the mountains. With two loving yeti parents.”

“And a yeti village,” Samdup adds.

Dawa's smile is more genuine than Stiles has ever seen it. “You could come too, if you would like.”

Samdup clears his throat. “Hypothetically.”

“I’ll think about it,” Stiles says, nearly breathless with excitement at the prospect. Could he really get out of here?

“You do that.” She hands Alfie over to her husband and leans in. Lowly, she whispers, “You can bring your friends along too, if you wish.”

The press of her lips to his cheek is brief, yet his skin tingles with warmth even as they walk away. The doors of the gym close with a sense of finality, leaving him alone once more.

o0o0o0o

“Laura said you were looking for me.”

Lydia leans back against the edge of her desk, cool and collected like she expected him. She tosses something small at him, which he reflexively catches.

A plum. Why…?

Stiles eyes it questioningly, but his familiar is less curious. He dances around Stiles’ feet, focused solely on the prized fruit above.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you using your magic around the halls. You need to rest.”

“It’s my magic and I can use it how I want to,” Stiles says, unfortunately aware of how much he sounds like a petulant child.

The unimpressed look on Lydia’s face is strikingly similar to how Natalie used to look at him.

“You’re being placed on mandatory rest. If I catch you using your magic, I’ll start revoking your privileges, starting with dessert.”

“Of course. For how long, Dictator Martin?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Sorry, do you prefer a different title? Commander? Great Leader? Overlord Martin, perhaps?”

Lydia plows onward, not taking the bait. “I’d appreciate if you rested until your paperwork has been processed.”

Stiles scowls. “What paperwork? You’re assigning me another mission already?”

“No. I believe we had an agreement and I owe you a trip to the Outside,” Lydia says airily, sifting nonchalantly through loose papers on her desk as though she hasn’t flipped Stiles’ world upside down.

Stiles’ trembling fingers contract around the plum. He forces his voice to remain neutral. “You’re fucking with me.”

“No. I’m not ‘fucking with you’. I made you a promise and I intend to keep it. You’ll be supervised the whole time, of course, but the destinations and activities will be up to you.” She lifts her gaze and it’s clear how nervous she is about this decision. How scared and ashamed she is underneath her casual facade.

“I suppose I can deal with having some company, as long as it isn’t Harris,” Stiles states. “But, why? Why do this now?” Especially after their last conversation had ended so badly.

“I regret some of the things I said, the last time we talked,” she confesses. “Some, but not one. I said I’d do whatever it took to make this place better, and I stand by that. I’m starting by righting this wrong. The way this agency— _we_ — have treated you is beyond shameful. It’s unacceptable. A vacation is long overdue and not nearly enough, but it’s a start.”

It’s not an apology, but Stiles has always despised apologies. He’s received a lifetime’s worth of fickle apologies spoken without any promise of lasting change. But this— this is different. It’s action. Change. It’s a new start, perhaps, for them both.

Stiles keeps his expression blank and unaffected. He’s not going to cheer or hug her or act grateful. As Lydia, herself, had admitted, this was long overdue.

“I'm not going to say thank you,” he says coldly.

If Lydia’s surprised by his reaction, she keeps it well hidden.

“I don’t expect you to,” she says. “I should be thanking you. For everything you’ve done for us here. For me.”

Stiles nods, but remains silent. What more needs to be said anyway?

Walmart flaps his wings in agitation, growing impatient as he waits for his gift. Stiles obligingly drops the plum, which is hastily caught in Walmart’s beak. He pecks at it viciously, tearing it apart and further damaging the office floor.

“Can I ask you something?” Lydia blurts, halting him as he moves to leave.

“Pretty sure we’ve concluded you can do whatever you want.”

Lydia ignores the jab.

“Why do plums help your magic? I’ve read through various texts and none have mentioned the benefits of witches eating plums, or any fruit.”

“Some fruits are just _magical_.” He’s completely bullshitting. The truth is, he has no clue either.

Some mysteries of the world never get answered. He’s fine with this being one of them.

He offers a two-finger salute and exits with a final, “Good talk. See you around, Chieftain.”

 

Sleep evades him that night.

Despite how many times he tosses and turns, his mind churns endlessly and shows no sign of quieting. He needs a distraction. Something else to focus on.

He’s debating if it’s worth being awake longer to leave his room in search of said distraction when the decision is made for him. Someone’s knocking at his door.

The last thing he’s expecting is to find an adorably rumpled Derek waiting outside. His eyes are sleep-heavy, hair unkempt with strands sticking out in disarray, and he’s wearing nothing but agency-embroidered sweatpants. He looks grumpy— or grumpi _er_ than usual.

Derek extends a clenched fist, a crow dangling by its foot in his grip.

“Uh,” Stiles says obtusely, his brain in the process of rebooting.

“Your bird shot himself in the head,” Derek says. “I was sleeping.”

“That’s…” _highly abnormal_. Walmart’s never created a scene without the intent of Stiles seeing it. But it doesn’t come as much of a surprise. He’s been evolving so much lately, it’s not much of a stretch to think he’s started branching out to a wider audience.

Still, it leaves a bitter taste in Stiles’ mouth. What else is his familiar doing that he doesn’t know about?

“He was wearing your face,” Derek says slowly. “Should I be concerned?”

“I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Stiles says. His eyes widen minutely as the blackbird wriggles in Derek’s grasp. “How are you holding him? He won’t even let me hold him.”

“Cora hit him with a baseball bat. I think we dazed him.” Stiles grunts as Derek shoves the bird against his chest. Walmart flails in Stiles’ arms, wings stretching out and smacking him in the face as he hops down onto the floor and disappears in a wisp of smoke.

“Why was Cora in your room?” Stiles asks, focusing on that because it’s easier than wondering why _Walmart_ had been there.

“Laura’s been having nightmares. Cora and I take shifts to keep an eye on her. We were switching when this feathered asshole showed up looking like you and offed himself in the corner of the room.”

“Shit,” Stiles breathes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Laura slept through it.” By his pissed off tone, Stiles gets the distinct impression that it’s _not_ fine, but lets it go.

“Want to come in?” he asks, stepping aside in invitation.

“Is the bird going to be there?”

“Depends on how you feel about clones in the bedroom.”

“Definite no.”

“Noted.”

Derek steps past him, hand brushing purposefully along Stiles’ middle as he passes. Stiles’ lips twitch upwards and he shuts the door.

Derek immediately star-fishes out on his bed, appearing to be half-asleep already. Has he been sleeping enough? Or has he been preoccupied with watching over Laura?

“No, it’s cool. Make yourself at home,” Stiles teases, receiving a short grunt in response. He ogles Derek’s muscular back and the curve of his butt, the shape well-defined even through a layer of sweatpants.

After dreaming about it for so long, he finally has Derek in his bed. Yet, his mind keeps drifting back to the events of the day, scanning every detail, every moment, every sentence, searching for _something_.

There must be a clue, something obvious that he’s missing. But, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t find anything that stands out. Maybe he’s never going to solve this mystery, never going to figure out who the mole is.

A part of him is beginning to question if there even is a mole.

Or— what if it’s him? Maybe he’s lost his mind and fabricated all of this to cope.

“Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you coming to bed?” Derek lifts his head off the pillow, just enough for Stiles to see the stink-eye directed his way.

“Sorry,” Stiles says distractedly, though he scuttles forward and sits on top of the sheets.

“No flirtatious comment about my body? No witty comeback?” Derek’s eyebrows pull downward. “What’s wrong?”

“Hmm? Nothing.”

“Lie.”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t know. I—” he tries again, “Do you ever get this foreboding sense of doom? Like a gut feeling that things are about to get worse?” At Derek’s unhappy expression, he wavers. “What?”

Derek shifts until his back against the headboard, mirroring Stiles’ position. He takes Stiles’ hand and traces the lines of his palm with a finger.

Stiles shivers at the feather-light touch. “What are you doing?” He tries to pull his hand back, but Derek’s grip only tightens.

“Proving you wrong.” Derek hums thoughtfully as his touch follows a long diagonal line. “This line says you’re going to live a long life. A happy one with many accomplishments and moments of laughter.”

“I’ve heard palm-reading is a reliable source of information.” Stiles’ voice is meek, his chest aching with longing, and heavy with doubt.

“Very. And I learned from the best.”

Stiles snorts. A smile tugs at Derek’s lips.

“Uh-huh. What else can you tell me? Do I get a hamster named George?”

Derek squints and Stiles chuckles as he brings his palm closer to his face, pretending to scan it for further information.

With a disappointed shake of his head, Derek declares, “It says ‘ask again later’.”

Stiles’ cheeks hurt from smiling, but the ache in his chest disappears. “Did you just magic 8-ball my hand?”

“Do you have a problem with my reading?” Derek teases.

“Nope! No complaints here.” Stiles entwines their fingers, heart skipping at the soft look in Derek’s eyes as he soothingly rubs his thumb along Stiles’.

Licking at his dry lips, Stiles murmurs, “Lydia put me on mandatory rest today.”

“Oh?”

“She’s granting me vacation.”

Derek perks up in interest, back straightening. “What? Vacation? As in…?”

“As in, I can go to the Outside. While supervised, but still. _Outside_.”

“That’s amazing.” Derek’s jaw is slack with shock.

“I know.” Stiles smiles sheepishly. “I was thinking that—” he nervously clears his throat “—perhaps you might join me.” Derek goes quiet. “It was only an idea. Not a big deal if you don’t want to.”

“It’s, uh,” Derek sputters, unusually flustered, “supposedly, vacationing too soon isn’t good for a new relationship.”

“Is that what we are? In a relationship?”

Derek’s expression shutters and Stiles squeezes his hand to prevent him from withdrawing further.

“What did you think we were?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t talk about it.”

He hadn’t been sure what to think. Now he’s realizing that, perhaps, Derek hadn’t thought the same way. Maybe they didn’t talk about it, because he thought they didn’t need to.

Derek seems to express affection in other ways, choosing action to say what words fail to. Heart squeezing with fondness, Stiles burrows under the bedsheets, tugging Derek down with him so he can curl up against him and use Derek’s chest as a pillow. It’s softer than he’d imagined.

He hopes Derek understands the meaning in his actions. It seems like he might when Derek’s arm slips underneath him and tugs him closer.

“I was hoping we were,” Derek admits.

“Then we are,” Stiles answers, “and you should go on vacation with me.”

Derek huffs a laugh. The soft sound is loud against Stiles’ ear.

“Okay.”

A comfortable silence falls, undisturbed by either of them as they lie together. It would be peaceful, if it weren’t for Stiles’ mind spinning and twisting in the stillness. Doubt creeps back in, tainting the moment in a way he _hates_.

“I’m scared,” he confesses. He needs to get out of his head, to expel the poison surging through him before it causes too much damage.

“About what?”

“Going Outside.”

“But you’ve always dreamt of going.”

“They were only dreams though. I never expected it to happen. What if my expectations are too high? What if Walmart acts up and people try to lock me up, or worse? What if I spent all this time dreaming about this place where I could finally be _free_ and normal— only to find out that I don’t belong there either?”

“Why wouldn’t you belong there?”

“Because I don’t know who I am!” Stiles exclaims, breaking free from Derek’s arms as he sits up. “Who am I, outside of this place?”

“You’re Stiles Gajos, Claudia’s son,” Derek states. “You’re Heather’s brother. Scott and Laura’s best friend.”

Stiles steadily stares back. “And to you? What am I to you?”

Derek’s mouth opens, looking lost as he fails to come up with a response.

Stiles shakes his head. It’s fine. He shouldn’t have pushed. He knows those words don’t come easily to Derek. It’s not a language he speaks well.

“I’m a child without a family. A witch without a coven. A pawn for an organization that weaponizes me. I have no life outside of this place. All my interests are fleeting. I have no hobbies, no goals or achievements, nothing to show for the twenty-one years I’ve been alive.” Stiles takes a shuddering breath. “I have _nothing_. To the Outside, I am no one.”

“You’re _someone_ ,” Derek growls, tone welcoming no disagreement, “and you’re so important to me. You make me happy, Stiles. I want to be with you all the fucking time and, even when you’re not in the room, I’m thinking about you. About what trouble you might be getting into or what dumb jokes you might be telling. It drives me crazy. _You_ drive me crazy!”

Stiles smashes their mouths together, wanting to taste Derek’s confession on his tongue.

“I love you,” Stiles whispers, his words swallowed by Derek’s mouth. Their kisses quickly grow heated and Derek twists, dropping Stiles’ back onto the bed and bracketing him against it.

Stiles heart is racing, his body thrumming with need. How long had he been envisioning this? Daydreaming about kisses, staying up late imagining the intoxicating feeling of skin against skin, hoping to one day use his body to show Derek what he feels for him.

The dream is finally taking shape, becoming real. Their bodies, hot and frantic, grind together, seeking out friction and pleasure. They gasp into each others mouths, shuddering and groaning when their bodies align _just_ _right_.

Witchcraft isn’t a religion. It’s a way of life. Witches are taught to honor and respect the Universe and the opportunities it bestowed, if they were deserving. There are no gods or goddesses to pray to; only the Good, Bad, and In-Between places in the afterlife to look forward to.

But, demon or not, witch or not, he’d worship Derek, if he’d let him. He’d find God in this beautiful man, attend church in his bed, whisper prayers against his mouth.

He’d spend purgatory writing endless novels about him. About _them_. Their religion.

“Can I?” Derek murmurs, fingers grasping at the bottom of Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles nods, though his mind protests the prospect of baring himself to scrutiny.

Derek’s fingers lightly trace the claw marks along his shoulder like a silent apology, but before Stiles can tell him to knock it off, his attention has shifted to the myriad tattoos dancing excitedly across Stiles’ body.

“They’re beautiful.” Derek presses the words into his skin with his lips, kissing the black marks decorating his torso as Stiles swallows past the lump in his throat.

To his mortification, the blotchy black stains morph into recognizable shapes. They form solid-black trees, wrapping around his forearm. A grayscale cabin, the home he’s always envisioned having with Derek, takes shape on his abdomen, light gray smoke billowing out of its chimney. The blackbird tattoo, as always, remains stationary on his bicep, but below it, a triskelion— the Hale family’s crest— rises and settles on his skin like it’s always been there.

Of all things, his magic decided to put his most embarrassing desires on display, bared to the eyes of the one person who might understand their meaning.

Derek inhales sharply, his expression unreadable.

Stiles bats his hand away, cheeks burning with shame. “Look, can we do this without... all this?”

“Without what?”

“This—” _bullshit_ “—flattery stuff. You don’t have to say that. I already like you.” Stiles might be similarly sentimental, but at least he has the decency to keep it to himself.

Derek’s gaze is sharp and much too knowing for Stiles’ liking. Stiles reaches for his shirt, intending to put it back on, but Derek halts the movement, pinning his wrist down against the bed.

“What’s your issue?” Derek growls.

“What’s _my_ issue? I thought we were about to have sex, not some sappy ‘slow bone’ or whatever. My bad for misunderstanding.”

When Derek gently reaches for the blackbird on his bicep, Stiles smacks his hand away.

“ _Don’t_. Don’t touch that.”

“Why do you hate them so much?” Derek questions, but complies. He latches onto Stiles’ free hand, intertwining their fingers and pressing it against the bed, a mirrored position of the other side.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Stiles gripes with an upwards roll of his hips. He knows he’s being an asshole, but he can’t help but lash out, terrified and overwhelmed by how strongly he feels for Derek and how much this means to him.

“Are you actually going to be serious for once?”

“What am I supposed to say? I’ve opened up. I’ve been serious. You’re the one who doesn’t know what he wants.”

“I know what I want.” Derek leans in, pointed teeth bared. Stiles’ breathing quickens, his cock thickening in his pants. Even so, his arousal isn’t not enough to overpower his anger.

“Bullshit.”

“I want you to stop trying to push me away,” Derek snarls. “And I want…” He visibly deflates, his demeanor softening. Shrinking. “Everything.”

What does that mean?

“Everything?”

“Everything.” Stiles’ eyes fall shut on a gasp as Derek untangles their fingers and trails his hands hotly down his body. “I want everything. I want to lay you bare and fuck you until you _stop_ _talking_. I want to make you cum so hard you forget your own name. I want you to see how fucking amazing you are. How hot, how beautiful, how strong.”

Stiles opens his mouth to argue as Derek kisses his tattoos, but the words die on his lips. A drawn-out moan takes their place as the heat of Derek’s palm surrounds his cock and presses down. Just enough pressure and movement to feel amazing and frustratingly not enough.

Stiles shoves his hands down the back of Derek’s pants, getting his hands on the firm, shapely ass he’s dreamt of touching. Derek hums his approval, trailing wet kisses up Stiles’ neck until their mouths meet.

There’s no finesse in their kisses. No chasteness in them either. They’re sloppy and rushed, the two of them desperate and buzzing with desire.

“We should slow down,” Derek suggests, letting Stiles catch his breath.

“Yeah, no. Veto.” Stiles pushes up to resume kissing, already addicted to the taste of Derek’s lips, only to have a hand on his chest shoving him back against the best with an _“oof!”_

“We should take this slow. You’ve never had sex before, right?”

Stiles clenches his jaw, peeved they’re having this conversation when they could be putting this time to better use.

“Not with another person, no.”

Stiles grimaces at the interest flickering over Derek’s features.

“Walmart?” he asks, seemingly both amused and disturbed.

“ _Ew_ , dude. No. Just a dildo.”

“A dildo.” Why does he sound so doubtful?

“You know. A penis-shaped object used for sexual gratification,” Stiles says, carefully enunciating so Derek understands just how done with this conversation he is.

They must not speak the same language, since Derek bulldozes onward.

“Interesting. I don’t recall there being a sex shop in this building.”

Stiles sinks into the mattress. When he’d thought about having church in bed, he meant it in a sexy, blasphemous way. Not the boring kind with deep discussions.

“Can we get to the fucking?” he complains, sliding a foot up the back of Derek’s thigh.

Frustratingly, Derek appears willing to wait him out. He presses harder against Stiles’ chest, an action that makes Stiles squirm, his cock throbbing painfully at the display of strength.

Apparently that’s a kink of his. Huh. Learn something new every day.

“Did you buy it while on a mission?”

Stiles frowns. Is this foreplay or an interrogation?

“No.” He licks at his dry lips and grabs Derek’s arm. He doesn’t try to dislodge it and doesn’t want to. He’s one-hundred percent into being held down.

Derek’s smile grows smug, like he knows the tortuous effect he’s having on Stiles. He must smell the desperate arousal pouring off him in waves.

“Tell me.”

Stiles groans out of sexual frustration rather than pleasure. His eyes roll upwards as he ponders how pissed Lydia would be if he sent Derek flying into the ceiling.

Humiliated, his face heats as he blurts, “Heather made it, okay?”

“What?” the asshole laughs and Stiles kicks him. Derek releases him with a grunt, clutching at his stomach though his laughter doesn’t subside.

“Stop laughing!” He aims another kick, but Derek grabs his ankle and tugs him down the bed. Stiles squawks at being dragged so easily, narrowing his eyes like he’s pissed and not incredibly turned on. “I could throw your fuzzy ass across this room with a snap of my fingers.”

“I know. But you won’t.”

Derek surges down and nuzzles his neck. His stubble scrapes and irritates Stiles’ skin, before he soothes it with a hot drag of his tongue. Stiles’ toes curl at the sensation, hands clutching at the back of Derek’s neck encouragingly.

Fuck it. If this is church, he might as well make a confession.

“It was a gift for my nineteenth birthday.” He shudders as Derek nips at the tender spot below his ear. “She made it, uh, disturbingly realistic and I— _oh yes, there_ — I might’ve found some spells to…” Derek shifts and grinds down. Stiles’ mind goes blissfully blank.

“Spells to what?”

“Hmm?” Stiles hums groggily. “Oh. I spelled it to fuck me.”

“Seriously?” Derek’s eyes are lidded with desire. “Damn, that’s hot.”

“It felt so good in me. Fucked me deep.” Stiles pushes up onto his elbows. Their noses almost touch, the tension thick and sparking like electricity between them. “But I bet the real thing is better.”

Derek growls, deep and inhuman, and brings their lips together roughly.

Stiles hastily tugs down his pants, kicking them off gracelessly as Derek does the same above him. They crash back together, no barriers between their naked skin. He slides his hands along Derek’s back, appreciating the strong, toned muscles rippling beneath his fingertips.

Stiles tilts his chin up, baring his neck.

It’s not an act of submission; he’s not a submissive guy. Not to the agency, not to Derek, not to _anyone_. Choosing to bare his neck now, is not submission, but _trust_.

Derek rumbles lowly, pleased, and laves at his proffered neck.

“I couldn’t sleep before you got here,” Stiles confesses as Derek’s hands caress his abdomen and dip south. A thumb traces a circle along Stiles’ rim, pressing down and breaching ever-so-slightly, a teasing pressure against his hole.

His body flushes with warmth and he whimpers when Derek pulls back.

Wide eyes gaze down at him, well-kissed lips parted in surprise. “Is that…?”

Stiles’ eyebrows rise meaningfully as he repeats, “I couldn’t sleep before you got here.”

“You…” Derek clears his throat, his cheeks an adorable ruddy pink.

“Fucked myself with the dildo?” Stiles says coyly, emboldened by the heady interest in Derek’s eyes. “Yep.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“You. Your cock.” Stiles cups Derek’s jaw with his hands and murmurs into his ear, “The sounds you’d make as you fuck me. How it’d feel when you come inside me, marking me as yours. I couldn’t spell it to do that.”

Derek shivers, eyes closing and hand pushing Stiles back against the bed. Stiles smirks, proud of the effect he has on Derek.

“Damnit.” Derek’s eyes open, revealing burning red irises. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“I’ve had a lot of free time to dedicate to watching porn,” Stiles says breezily. It’s true. He’s watched a _lot_ of porn. And he’s tired of waiting for the real thing.

He wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and rolls, switching their positions so that he’s on top, straddling Derek’s waist and grinning toothily.

“Oh my, what a thick cock you have,” he purrs.

Derek’s dick is a work of art. It’s average in length but girthy, complimentary to Stiles’ longer and thinner one.

Stiles works the foreskin up and down with his fingers, captivated by the sight. He’s going to be obsessed with categorizing all the ways Derek’s uncut cock differs from his circumsized one.

A drop of pre-cum glistens and drools from the head. Stiles’ mouth waters and, for a moment, he’s unsure if he wants it in his mouth or his ass more.

Leaning forward, he teasingly circles his tongue over the head and laps up the bitter fluid. He licks his lips and sits back at the sound of fabric tearing. Derek’s claws are embedded in the mattress, his face pinched like he’s in pain.

“Stiles,” he grits out through a tightly clenched jaw.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Stiles asks innocently.

“ _Yes,_ ” Derek growls. “Where’s your lube?”

With a sly smile, Stiles slides a finger down to where it had been buried less than an hour before. There’s a sufficient amount of lube still there. It won’t be painless, but he likes a little pain with his pleasure.

“Not needed.”

He takes Derek in hand and presses the flared head against his entrance. They’ve had enough foreplay.

Stiles hisses and Derek groans, his body tense as he allows Stiles to ease himself down onto his cock. It’s a bit of a stretch— Derek’s cock is definitely thicker than his dildo— but it’s a satisfying burn.

“Derek,” Stiles moans.

The ache lessens as he works himself languidly, gyrating his hips in a torturously slow ride. He leans back, hands gripping at hairy thighs for a better angle. He gasps and whines at the new sensation. Fuck, he feels Derek so much deeper like this.

He’s working up a sweat, thighs burning as they bracket Derek’s waist. Hands clutch his hips and trail up his stomach, caressing the tattoos on his chest and abs. His tattoos spread out and swirl happily under the rare attention.

“I think they like you,” he breathlessly admits.

He usually avoids talking about them, hates acknowledging their existence. He didn’t have a choice in whether or not he wanted his body covered in endlessly-moving blots of ink.

Just like the agency, his magic had stolen from him too, marring his body like it was collateral damage and not something that belong to him.

“I like them too.” Gentle fingertips glide over tattooed skin, veneration in pale green eyes, and Stiles doesn’t need supernatural hearing to know Derek is speaking the truth.

Maybe they aren’t so bad, after all.

Awed, Stiles’ movements falter and Derek seizes the moment to bend his knees. The change throws Stiles off balance. Thick hands grab and steady him as Derek takes over, his hips bucking up and cock slamming into him in a brutal rhythm.

Stiles cries out on a powerful thrust, his fingers digging into Derek’s hair-dusted pecs.

“That’s it, Stiles. You’re taking it so well,” Derek croons. His fingers squeeze bruisingly at his waist, even as his thumbs rub comforting circles into Stiles’ skin. “So hot and tight. Your ass is gripping my cock— keeps pulling me in, like you don’t want me to leave. Knew you’d feel amazing. Knew you’d be so good for me.”

Stiles whimpers, back arching slightly. His body warms, flushing at the unexpected praise.

“‘m not—”

“You _are_.” Derek tugs him down and his hands are rough, though his kisses are anything but. His lips are a soft pressure against Stiles’, his tone gentling as he murmurs compliments into his pliant mouth.

Derek’s cock hits the spot inside him just right, and Stiles’ forehead drops against Derek’s chest, his mouth open and panting. As his desperation grows— nails digging into flesh, small noises punching out of him unbidden— Derek’s movements become harsher. Quicker. Almost too much; straddling the line between painful and so, _so_ good.

“Fuck, Stiles. So perfect for me,” Derek says reverently.

Stiles tries to return the compliment, only to release a broken moan. The next thrust is particularly forceful and he swears, arching up and reflexively squirming to get away.

It’s too much.

Firm hands force him back down, holding him so he can’t move away. A heady groan emanates from Stiles’ chest as Derek unquestioningly continues his assault on Stiles’ prostate.

He never thought he’d enjoy being used like this, but he _does_. A part of him craves giving up control, trusting that Derek won’t let him stray too far.

Loath as he is to admit it— he _likes_ being showered in praise he’s forced to accept instead of avoid, he _likes_ the primal side of Derek and knowing he’s not the only one letting go, he _likes_ pretending he couldn’t easily escape Derek’s hold if he wanted to.

His cock juts outward, flushed and straining as pre-cum leaks heavily from its tip. He’s close.

“Derek.” Stiles caresses Derek’s stubbled cheeks, bringing their lips together for a deep kiss. “So good. Feels so good.”

Derek whines, his brutal rhythm wavering and becoming erratic.

It seems Stiles isn’t the only one who enjoys praise. It’s unsurprising, considering they rarely hear words of encouragement within the agency’s walls.

They’ll have to change that.

“Come for me, Der,” Stiles murmurs into his mouth, his lips scraping against pointed teeth. “I want you to. I want it. Come in me.”

Derek gasps and groans, his hips slamming up once— twice— and grinding Stiles down as his cock releases, pumping come into him. Stiles feels him twitch and fill him, marking him on the inside.

Derek’s fingers leave marks on his waist. Not that Stiles minds.

He hums contentedly as Derek’s thick cock pulses deep inside him, clenching down and shuddering at the sensation of being full. He fists his cock, pumping it rapidly as he tumbles towards completion.

“Yes, oh—”

His hips buck in Derek’s lap, eyes shut tight with pleasure as he comes. His body spasms, muscles tightening, and he trembles from the aftershocks. Derek jerks his hips up with a grunt, likely overstimulated as Stiles’ ass milks him for all he’s worth.

This is _so_ much better than a dildo.

Stiles pants and blearily blinks down to find Derek staring back with a dumbstruck expression. In this quiet moment between the two of them, Derek’s compliments echo in his ears and he feels indescribably warm and sated.

Cherished.

He truly loves this man. Has loved him for so long, he can’t remember what it feels like _not_ to love him. His adoration is an integral part of who he is.

Derek was right. He’s Claudia’s son, Heather’s brother. Scott and Laura’s best friend. But he’s also the man who adores Derek with every fibre of his being. Who has loved Derek since the day they met. Who would _always_ love him.

Stiles brushes their lips together before rolling onto his back with a dramatic sigh. His nose scrunches at the unpleasant sensation of Derek’s soft cock sliding out of him and come dripping down his thighs.

“D’you think it’s gonna take?” he sleepily teases, basking in the floaty post-orgasm haze.

Derek snorts with his arm tossed over his eyes. His smile is wide and beautiful.

“I’m too young to be a father!” Stiles mock-wails. Derek rolls on top of him, grinning down at him.

“You’re such a loser.”

“You love it.”

A complicated look flickers across Derek’s features as his eyes rove over Stiles’ face. Stiles hums contentedly, brushing the pad of his thumb over Derek’s forehead to ease the creases there.

Derek swallows, looking lost. He shouldn’t look like that. Stiles frowns, his thumb shifting lower to trace full, kiss-reddened lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“Stiles, I…”

His eyes bulge and he lurches backwards. Stiles blinks owlishly, mind slow to comprehend the abrupt change.

“Is that Walmart?”

“Huh?”

Stiles follows Derek’s line of sight and instantly identifies the problem. A twitchy beak juts out of the blackbird tattoo on his bicep.

Seriously? Can’t Walmart handle being alone for less than an hour?!

“For fuck’s sake!” He jabs at the beak, shoving it back inside his arm, but it darts back out and pissily bites his finger like this was a ridiculous game of whack-a-mole. “Go away, you’ll ruin the mood!”

“It’s already ruined.”

“No! Give me a minute. I can get rid of him. He’s not usually like this. He’s just a little clingy today.” Stiles smacks a hand over the tattoo, grimacing at the unpleasant sensation of Walmart pecking at his palm.

What’s wrong with him? He’s a crow, not a fucking woodpecker!

Derek rises from the bed, naked and stunning.

“Where are you going? No, don’t leave— I thought we were heading towards a second round,” Stiles whines.

Derek huffs and swats the lights. The room plunges into darkness.

“No second round. We’re going to sleep. Tell your demon bird the fun’s over.”

The scratchy movement under his palm stops, as though Walmart’s surrendered.

Stiles shimmies under the covers, grinning goofily when Derek shuffles in and tucks himself up along his back, arm draping protectively over his middle and lips pressing against his neck.

The room is quiet and Derek’s body plastered against his is warm and comforting. He feels safe. Loved.

Contentment soaks into his skin like a salve. It doesn’t remove the deep, myriad wounds. It can’t. But it aids the healing process, helps old wounds become faded scars, making them more tolerable.

After everything bad he’s experienced in his life, he never imagined he’d get to have this.

He closes his eyes and thinks of the fickle nature of the Universe. How long he’s waited for something good to come. How many rituals and sacrifices he’s done, only to receive nothing in return. How many losses he’s faced, with so few wins.

He won’t say ‘thank you’. Not to Lydia, and not to the Universe.

He refuses to be grateful for being given what is owed.

o0o0o0o

There had been a time when Stiles spent lunch alone. For years it’d been him and Claudia, then Heather too. After Claudia’s death, Stiles had been isolated. Studying, training, eating. All alone. He’d go days without uttering a single word.

Then Scott arrived at the agency. And, Allison soon after. Heather occasionally joined when she was older and had forgiven Stiles. Laura was added after they became partners, though that ended when she’d ‘died’. Cora had been their newest member. Until now.

His table is pushed up against Derek’s, the combined space packed with people, their own makeshift family, and he can’t remember what it had been like to be alone.

“I miss when you used to be miserable like the rest of us,” Cora mutters to Stiles, lip curled in distaste.

Scott frowns. “Allison and I aren’t miserable.”

“We know,” Erica deadpans, like she isn’t equally as bad, practically seated in Boyd’s lap.

Cora scoffs. Crumbs fly from her fork as she gestures with it. “You and Allison aren’t normal. You’re nauseatingly codependent. It’s gross.”

Scott’s face dims, though the creases in his forehead ease as Allison rubs his shoulder and whispers in his ear.

Cora gags at the affectionate display and shifts her focus back to Stiles.

“I used to like you. Now it’s like I don’t even recognize who you’ve become.”

“Because I’m happy?” Stiles asks.

“Exactly!”

Cora’s eyes widen as Stiles impishly trails a hand up her brother’s arm.

“But how could I be anything but happy when I’m with such a handsome man?” Stiles squeezes Derek’s bicep and mock-gasps. “Oh my, what big muscles you have!”

“I don’t sound like that!” Allison refutes, pouting when Scott bursts out laughing. “Tell them I don’t sound like that!”

“I mean… sometimes?” Scott winces at Allison’s flabbergasted face. “It’s not a bad thing. No, don’t— it’s cute!”

Derek snorts, eyes alight with humor as he leans in, lips grazing Stiles’ ear.

“If I’m the wolf, does that make you little red riding hood?”

Stiles’ cheeks heat with arousal and fondness. Besides the incident in his room, this is the closest they’ve come to flirting in days.

Derek’s spent most of his time with his sisters, helping Laura readjust to the agency and cope with her trauma. Meanwhile, Stiles has been tailing Matt and scouring the library for any spell-books whose witches were willing to speak with him. None were.

A burst of affection zings through him at Derek’s poor excuse for flirting, because at least that means they’re okay. Busy, but _okay_.

Stiles winks. “I’m not little, but I love ridin—”

“Nope _._ Not here for this. I’m out!” Cora declares, swiftly exiting as Stiles cackles.

Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t hide his smile or soft laughter. Stiles gapes at the sight, hoping it might burn into his brain if he stares hard enough. He’s quickly becoming addicted to the sound of Derek’s laughter. Especially when it’s because of him, not at him. It’s a rush, a giddy euphoric feeling spreading warmth through his body.

He wants to make Derek laugh every day, for however long he’s allowed to.

“That was so bad, dude,” Scott groans.

“Thanks. I learned it from your mom.”

Scott shoots him an unimpressed look.

“It wasn’t that bad. I’ve heard worse,” Boyd says with a shrug.

Erica beams. “From me!”

Isaac snorts. “Why are you proud of that?”

Laura, however, is eyeing Cora’s vacant seat with a shocked look.

“Is she always that blunt?” she asks.

“Yep,” Stiles answers.

“I don’t know. She doesn’t talk to me much,” Derek says.

Stiles’ brows furrow. “But you guys hang out all the time. What do you do? Sit in silence?” Derek’s eyebrows raise, expression neutral. “Seriously? You do?” He grabs a fry from Derek’s plate, chewing carelessly as he continues, “Don’t you guys have hobbies you could talk about? Favorite shows? Preferred style of cooking meat?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Laura’s eyes bounce between them with interest. Her smile broadens wickedly when Derek pushes his plate closer to Stiles. Jumping on the offer before Derek changes his mind, Stiles snatches another handful of fries.

“How can you fit all that in your mouth?” Derek grumbles.

“You weren’t asking me that last night,” Stiles fires back, “and that was a much bigger mouthful than this.”

Erica cackles while the rest of his betas make various expressions of displeasure.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek blurts unthinkingly.

“I do remember you saying _that_ a few times thou— hey!” Stiles protests as Derek shoves the plate towards Isaac.

As if that’s going to stop him. Stiles snaps his fingers, concentrating on taking the food back.

In a true miracle, the plate of food reappears in front of him.

Giddily, he exclaims, “Dude, did you see that?! My summoning spell worked! It’s never worked before. This is awesome!”

“Lunch is over,” Derek declares gruffly. Stiles gawks as he walks away, stunned by the abrupt dismissal. “Well?” Derek raises a pointed brow when Stiles remains seated.

Oh. _Oh_.

“Are we going to have sex now?” Stiles scrambles to his feet, squawking as he less-than-gracefully trips over the bench.

Scott chokes. “We’re not that bad, are we?” he whines to Allison.

“You are,” Boyd deadpans, supported by multiple agreeing nods.

 

Stiles and Derek stumble into a nearby restroom.

Instead of the heated kisses Stiles expected, Derek kisses him gently. Lovingly. At the risk of sounding lame, he feels _cherished_.

Derek’s plush lips brush against his, tongue unhurried as it licks into his mouth. The kiss is soft, slow, and deep, and Stiles loses himself in it. His mind is blank, for the first time in a long while, and he basks in the tingling warmth radiating through his body.

It takes a few moments to register when Derek pulls away. His eyes flutter open, an unspoken question on his lips.

“You’re infuriating.” Derek says, voice strangled.

“Uh, sorry?”

“You’re so...”

“Goofy? Strange? Weird? All of the above?”

“Amazing. And frustrating. I want to kiss you _all the time_.”

“Oh. Um, you have my blanket permission to do that, uh, whenever,” Stiles babbles, caught off guard.

When Derek gives him another chaste kiss, Stiles gapes, awed as realization sinks in.

“You really like me,” he says. Derek nods. “And you like my magic.” That’s more of a hunch, going by the way Derek had abruptly left after the successful summoning spell.

“The way your eyes go black— fuck. It’s hot,” Derek breathes against his ear, teeth nipping at his earlobe. Stiles shivers, his hands reflexively twisting in Derek’s shirt and pulling him closer.

Stiles’ ear must be some kind of pleasure-spot because, in the span of three seconds, his dick has gone from mildly interested to straining uncomfortably against his pants’ zipper.

“I’m going to put up a silencing spell and suck your brain out of your dick,” he says. Derek rears back, face going blank like it does when he’s trying not to laugh. Stiles appreciates the effort. “Okay, that wasn’t my best work, I’ll admit it. It sounded sexier in my head.”

“How about you put up a silencing charm and I’ll eat you out until you come from nothing but the feeling of my mouth?”

Stiles’ knees wobble. “Deal! No take-backs!”

Derek’s grin is wolfish. “Put your hands on the wall.”

o0o0o0o

The lounge is empty except for them.

Allison sits at the end of the couch, nestled up against the cushioned armrest as she cards her fingers through Scott’s hair. His head is pillowed in her lap, his legs draped over Stiles’. He’s fast asleep, silent save for sporadic snores. He drifted off during the credits of Halloweentown. Hocus Pocus plays on the fuzzy television screen now— the third movie on their ‘Hokey Halloween Movie Marathon’ list.

The second week of October has just begun, but Stiles, like most witches, enjoys celebrating the whole spooky month leading up to the big event: Samhain.

Busying himself with silly celebrations and movie marathons is the only way he’ll stay sane this month. He needs the distractions, so he won’t fixate on the fact that this will be his first Samhain alone. He’ll be responsible for finding ingredients and setting up the ritual, performing it, and pretending like the Universe gives a shit about the hopes of a single witch.

Samhain is the most important holiday of the year. It’s when the veil between life and the spiritual realm is thinnest, when the Universe is most gracious and willing to grant witches’ dreams if their sacrifices are strong enough. But, like all others, Samhain’s ritual requires three witches.

The agency has one.

Stiles absently draws circles on Scott’s thigh with his thumb, his eyelids heavy. A soft jingling noise draws his attention. Allison’s smiling down at Scott, her fingers leaving his hair to play with the shiny bracelet around his wrist. Her matching bracelet clinks lightly against his. The way she regards him is so loving, so adoring, it makes Stiles’ chest ache with longing.

Allison’s movements halt, discomfort flashing across her features. Stiles follows her wary line of sight and—

Allison’s dead body rests along the wall beside the TV, neck bent at a sharp angle and head leaning against the television stand. She appears smokey and charred, like she’d been dragged through a fire.

“Sorry,” Stiles murmurs.

“It’s fine,” Allison replies, though it clearly isn’t. She, like Heather, never seemed comfortable around Walmart. Not that Stiles blames her. Walmart is an acquired taste. It’s hard to develop a fondness for him, when he pulls morbid shit like this.

“Dude, you’ve been following me all day. Can you give me some space?” Stiles complains, tossing a popcorn kernel at his familiar.

Walmart-Allison perks up, head lifting with a gruesome _snap!_ She curiously inspects the discarded kernel.

“Is there a reason why he looks like me?” Allison asks.

“Maybe. I think some of his episodes are warnings, but not all, and it’s difficult to tell the difference,” Stiles says with a frown.

It doesn’t appear to soothe her fears. Her expression is tight with stress, her frown deep and unpleasant.

“Hey, I know you’ve had some time off after the last mission, but is everything okay? Are you okay?” Stiles gently questions, touching her arm.

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. She chuckles sourly. “I was assigned another mission.”

“What?” Stiles exclaims, lowering his volume at Scott’s sleepy noise of complaint, “What mission? When? Why can’t they assign somebody else?”

Allison shakes her head sadly. “It has to be me. It’s an intel-gathering thing with the hunters. I’m helping them transport hostages.”

Right. It can’t be anyone else, since Allison’s their only double-agent.

“Lydia thinks they might be transporting them to HQ. I can’t decline.” She takes a shuddering breath. “But I’m really nervous about it. I’ve never done anything like this before. The hunters usually give me small assignments only. They don’t trust me enough to involve me in anything secretive. This is different. This is a top secret assignment and I’m scared, because I can’t figure out why they’re giving it to me.”

Stiles frowns. “Do you think they know you’re working with us?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, “I hope not.”

Stiles screams internally.

Allison’s barely keeping it together and Lydia expects her to work a mission that might be another trap? It’s risky. Too risky. What is Lydia thinking?!

“Tell Lydia you want out. It’s not safe. Tell her you think your cover might be blown.”

“I did. She thinks it’s worth the risk. If we find out where their main base is, we can potentially shut down their entire operation. Everything is in that building. Other dens are remote labs and backup supplies, but the valuable research is stored at HQ. Blueprints, hard-drives, advanced technology— all of it is there.”

“Is it worth your life?” Stiles carefully questions. Do the means still justify the end?

Her eyes flit over to where zombie-Walmart-Allison is gnawing on the small kernel.

“Maybe.”

It’s not the answer he’d hoped for, but he understands where she’s coming from. They could save thousands of lives, if the mission works out.

“You won’t be alone, right? You’ll have backup?”

Allison offers a non-reassuring shrug. “Scott and Matt are coming too.”

Stiles sits up, his back a rigid line. “Matt? Matt _Daehler?”_

“Yes,” she says, “Lydia assigned him. I know you’re not his biggest fan, but it’ll be fine. I’ve worked with him before. He’s a good agent.”

Stiles does his best dying whale impression.

“I don’t trust him!” he says.

“You don’t have to. You’re not working the mission,” she says.

Stiles sinks back into the couch, a sick feeling in his gut.

o0o0o0o

He stops at the threshold of the office and knocks on the doorframe, unsure whether or not he’s expected to announce his presence when there’s no door.

Lydia glances up from her paperwork.

“Stiles,” she says, more of a gust of air than an actual greeting. Hastily, she slides her papers aside. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. Did you decide where you want to go?”

He drops into the vacant seat, knees bouncing and fingers rubbing along the textured fabric of his jeans.

How could he have decided when there are so many places to visit, sights he’s dreamt of seeing, experiences he wants to have? How could he pick one? How could anyone choose between cliff jumping in Hawaii and skiing in Switzerland? Between tasting crêpe in Paris or gelato in Rome? Between experiencing the heat of Africa or the cold of Antarctica?

His fingers clench into fists. He forces the thoughts back, hiding them away like he’s done for so long. He can’t think about what he might be giving up.

“The mission with Allison.”

Lydia blinks. “I’m sorry, I must’ve misheard. Can you say that again?”

“I want to go on the mission with Allison, Scott, and Matt.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” she barks a harsh, humorless laugh. “You’re on vacation!”

“Postpone it.”

Her face darkens, jaw clenching. “Do you know how how many strings I had to pull to make this work?” Her nostrils flare on a hefty exhale. She’s pissed.

Stiles tries again, “ I know. I appreciate that. I do. But Allison had a…” he searches for the right word “…rough time during the last mission, because of what happened to Scott. It was bad.”

“Let’s say I agree to this. What if I can’t get your vacation approved again after?”

He really hopes that won’t be the case, but, if it is…

“I’m already used to being disappointed,” he says. “Add me to the mission.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex-related tags: Power-bottom Stiles/topping from the bottom. Possible under-negotiated kink (manhandling), but both parties are totally into it and 1000% consenting, even if it’s unspoken. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Fanfiction sex is not always going to be a realistic portrayal of ‘first time’ sex. Obvi.
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter!


	16. It's Showtime, Bitches!

The room is dark despite the early morning hour, one of the few perks to having a windowless bedroom. Stiles snuggles deeper against the warm body in his bed, dreading having to leave the contented safety of Derek’s arms.

It turns out Derek’s adorably clingy while asleep. Almost immediately after dozing off, his arms wrapped around Stiles like a baby koala clinging to its mother.

Adorable.

When he had woken up to Derek’s warmth plastered against him, a deep satisfaction in his bones, he knew this was where he belonged, where he was meant to be.

But he has to leave.

He regrets the mission immediately as he detangles from Derek’s grasp and readies for work. He hops gracelessly as he tugs on his pants, smashing into his desk and stubbing his toe.

“Mother _fuck!”_

“Where are you going?” Derek sleepily asks.

His air of grumpy displeasure and ruffled hair is almost enough to convince Stiles to stay.

“Uh…” He silently curses Derek for distracting him. How is he supposed to come up with a plausible excuse for his absence when faced with _that?_

Besides, he hates having to lie to him. Even though a single lie is pretty innocent compared to the humongous mountain of lies he’s told over the years. What’s a single snowflake compared to a thick blanket of snow?

As crummy as it feels, it’s for the best. He can’t tell the truth or Derek will want to come with him, putting aside his responsibilities as Laura’s brother to entertain Stiles’ ridiculous suspicions. Right now, Laura needs Derek far more than Stiles does.

He wills his heart to remain steady as he skirts around the truth. “I have to meet with Lydia real quick,” he says. Not a lie. He needs to get his CommUnit and mission briefing from her before departing the agency.

“What for?”

“It’s a surprise.” It will be, but not for Stiles.

He offers a slanted grin, trying not to think about how pissed Derek’s going to be later.

o0o0o0o

The van doors open and they hop out, each of them activating their CommUnits.

“No guard dog today?” Matt snidely comments, the first thing he’s said to Stiles that day. He’d spent the entire hour-long van ride chatting with their driver Billy about movies— a discussion that had gone over Stiles’ head. It’s difficult to keep up with recent references when he had no way to go see current movies, plays, or concerts.

Heather had been the one keeping him up-to-date on pop culture for the first few years. The rest he’d learned through eavesdropping on interactions between other agents, though he hasn’t been as interested the past few months. Not when it was starting to seem like he’d never get to spend considerable time in the Outside anyway.

“Not today,” Stiles answers through clenched teeth.

If all goes as planned, Stiles shouldn’t have to lift a finger or discharge a weapon. They’re just here as extra security, extra sets of eyes and ears for Allison. At least, that’s what their mission declares. In Stiles’ case, he’s here to keep an eye on Matt.

Or, as Lydia would put it if she knew, he’s here as a “waste of time and manpower”.

 _“Can you hear me?”_ Stiles’ nose wrinkles at the unexpected sound of Greenberg’s voice.

“Where’s Danny?”

“Dude,” Scott says disapprovingly. ‘ _Tact_ ,’ he mouths. Wisdom from the Master of Tactfulness himself. Stiles shrugs.

_“Danny requested a temporary break from the job.”_

“Bull.” Stiles’ already dreary mood sours further. “Where. Is. Danny.”

_“I just told you!”_

“I know where your dorm is. Don’t make me ask you in person, Greenberg,” Stiles hisses.

 _“He’s on psych leave,”_ Greenberg mutters, giving in.

Stiles blinks, his mind attempting to make sense of that statement. It doesn’t compute.

“What?”

_“The last mission messed him up pretty bad, with all the, uh, dismembered limbs, mutations, and discovery of his peers in a torture room. It got to him. He requested counseling and Lydia put him on leave.”_

“Oh…” Wow, he’s an asshole. He hadn’t considered how the mission might’ve affected Danny. “Sorry.”

Greenberg grunts. _“So, if you guys could avoid dying or discovering anything too traumatizing, that’d be great.”_

Allison’s lips twitch. “We’ll try our best.”

_“Time to split up. One of you will shadow Allison at a short distance, the other two will be stationed further back.”_

“I’ll shadow Allison,” Scott volunteers.

“Shocker,” Matt says caustically before gesturing at the weapon strapped to Scott’s belt. “Do you actually know how to use that thing or is it just for decoration?”

“I know how to use it and I will, if it comes to that. I’d do anything for her,” Scott replies darkly.

At Greenberg’s go ahead, Scott and Allison stride toward their assigned areas. Matt stands by Stiles, gazing after them with a grim expression.

“Puppy love is cute ’til someone gets killed over it,” he says.

Stiles’ fists clench, ready to strike. “That a threat?”

Matt’s lip curls and he swaggers away with both middle fingers raised.

 _“Take your places, it’s showtime, bitches! ”_ Greenberg sing-songs, attitude disproportionately happy for the situation. _“Everybody mind your cues, the curtain’s rising and the audience is waiting!”_

 _“What the fuck are you on?”_ Matt snaps over the CommUnit. With an attitude like that, it’s no wonder why he’s gone this long without being reassigned a new partner. Lucas must have been saint-like to have been able to tolerate him.

 _“I read that humor during traumatic experiences can help reduce the risk of developing PTSD,”_ Greenberg explains.

“Is working with Daehler that traumatic?” Stiles quips.

 _“Hardy har har, asshole,”_ Matt gripes. “Go suck a dick.”

“Already did that last night,” Stiles says cheerily. “Jealous I’m getting laid?”

 _“How do you know I’m not?”_ The scowl on his face is practically audible.

“Who are you fucking?” Stiles asks. “Sorry, let me rephrase— who would fuck _you?_ Is it one of the weird wendigos that arrived last month? The mermaid lady with the fish head and human legs?” He gasps dramatically and lowers his voice, scandalously whispering, “The kanima?”

_“Fuck off.”_

“Is it Lydia?”

 _“God, no,”_ he says with vehemence. He had less of a reaction when accused of fucking a kanima. Stiles is almost offended on Lydia’s behalf.

“You’ve seemed pretty chummy with her lately.”

Matt releases a harsh laugh. _“Because you told her I’m some traitorous, partner-killing asshole— which is ironic coming from you— and now I’m forced to attend daily meetings with her to discuss my ‘activities and behavior’. If I skip, I get suspended. Anything else you want to accuse me of? Kicking puppies? Killing babies?”_

The back of Stiles’ neck itches and he rubs it absentmindedly. He refuses to feel ashamed for ratting him out to Lydia. He might not have solid proof, but he trusts his intuition, and his intuition tells him that Matt is not a good guy.

With a roll of his shoulders, he brushes the moment off and heads for his assigned position.

 

Assembling his rifle is a task Stiles could perform in his sleep.

It’s a relief to remove the hefty vest strapped around his chest, each pocket securely holding a piece of the bulky weapon. He hates having to wear it, even for a short time, since it limits his movements. The added weight and bulging pockets are cumbersome to maneuver freely in, which isn’t ideal in this line of work.

A breeze blows across the rooftop, rustling his hair and sending dead leaves tumbling along the cobblestones below. It’s a perfect October day; the temperature’s mild enough for just a single layer. As much as he likes Dawa, he’s grateful to be away from the snow and freezing temperatures that accompany her.

Stiles rolls up his sleeves, and lowers down onto his stomach. He watches through the sniper rifle scope as Allison enters the library. It’s an unassuming building, bland to look at and not given much attention by the locals. They shuffle past, their headphones in and eyes glued to their phones as they go about their days.

How nice it must be, to be so unaware of the hidden world operating in the shadows, to be unconcerned with anything other than everyday life.

The ignorant are blissful. Stiles wishes he were one of them.

In his peripheral, Scott leans against a bus stop, scanning the library as his fingers tap anxiously at his thigh, ready to pull his hidden weapon at a moment’s notice.

Through the third floor window, Allison becomes visible as she greets two stern-faced paramedics.

They must be hunters.

Flashing lights reflect off stone walls and an ambulance pulls in front of the building. Two more ‘EMTs’ rush into the building with a stretcher. Ah, so that’s how they were planning on transferring the hostage.

Smart of them to think ahead with their disguises. It wouldn’t be easy to transport a hostage in the light of day without cover.

Irritatingly, Stiles’ ears start to ring, the sound escalating to a frustratingly loud tone. Pulling back from the scope, he shakes his head, fingers plugging his ears in a futile attempt to stop it.

His vision blurs, eyes welling up at the intensity of the sound and its vibrations pounding inside his skull. It lessens just enough to push through and he goes back to his scope, but Allison’s gone. So is Scott.

Shit! It’s been two seconds, he can’t have lost them already. At least they couldn’t have gotten far in such a short time.

He glances at the rifle, briefly debating on whether or not to waste time disassembling it. He decides against it and abandons his weapon as he dashes down the building’s stairwell. He skips batches of steps at a time in his haste, racing onto the streets.

It’s crowded with people due to the post-work rush, but there’s no sign of the ambulance anywhere. How had he lost them so quickly?

He takes off down the street, heading back the way they’d come. A rush of startled air escapes him as he’s tugged into an alleyway, his back shoved up against the bricks.

As he reaches for a knife at his waist, the force against him abruptly lets go. He sags forward a step, lip curling as Matt steps back, face illuminated by a stray lamp. Stiles bypasses the knife and snatches his handgun instead. The barrel is aimed unwaveringly at Matt’s heart.

Matt freezes, hands in the air. His rifle is slung across his back.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stiles spits venomously.

“What am I doing? What the fuck are you doing?!” Matt hisses, eyes darting to the unobservant people passing by only a few yards away.

 _“Lower your weapon, Stiles!”_ Greenberg yells.

Stiles swears at the volume, hand reflexively going up to his ear to stop it. Matt takes the opening, surging forward and disarming him with precision. The gun skitters down the dingy ground, coming to rest in a puddle. Stiles grits his teeth and glares at him.

 _“What’s going on?”_ Scott asks.

“It’s fine. You and Ally keep going. I’ll hold him off,” Stiles answers.

 _“What the hell are you going on about?”_ Greenberg asks incredulously. _“Hold who off? What’s going on?”_

“I have no idea,” Matt says, eyeing Stiles like one would a terrified and trapped animal. His hands are still raised, and the placating gesture only serves to make Stiles more on edge. “Stiles, you need to calm down.”

“I knew it was you,” Stiles seethes. “I knew it!”

Matt falls silent, expression darkening. “Greenberg, I might need assistance.”

 _“Someone tell me what’s going on!”_ Scott demands.

“Stiles has fucking lost it and attacked Daehler!” Greenberg shouts. Stiles gapes.

_“What?! Stiles? What’s happening, man? Talk to me,” Scott says worriedly._

“He’s messing with my head, Scott. My head is killing me. It feels like…” like his mission with Laura all over again “…like _before_.”

_“Stiles, it isn’t Matt.”_

“It is! I _know_ it is! Think about it— he’s the only repeating factor. Other than Greenberg, but we both know Greenberg doesn’t count. He’s basically useless,” Stiles rambles, ignoring Greenberg’s offended grunt. “Then the ringing and pounding in my head started and I lost you and Allison, so I ran down the street and _this asshole_ shows up out of nowhere, trapping me in an alley, and accusing me of losing my mind! He’s the one, Scott!”

Matt rears back indignantly. “I’m operating on orders! Greenberg told me to check on you!”

Stiles scoffs indignantly. Did Matt forget that he had a CommUnit too? He would have heard that, if it had happened.

 _“Stiles, it’s true. Greenberg kept trying to talk to you, but you wouldn’t respond,”_ Scott says slowly, Stiles pushes his back more firmly against the wall behind him, needing to feel something solid against him. _“He asked Daehler to check on you. It’s **true**. I heard it.”_

“I don’t trust him,” Stiles whispers, eyes locked on Matt.

 _“Then trust me,”_ Scott implores. Stiles does. _“I wouldn’t lie to you.”_

Scott wouldn’t lie to him, so it had to be true then, right? He tugs his knife from his waist while Matt warily eyes the movement. Stiles lowers his weapon and drops it to the ground. They both know he has more weapons on him, but the others are less easy to get to.

“How long was I unresponsive?” Stiles rasps.

_“Ten minutes.”_

“Fuck.” He wipes a damp, quivering palm over his face. He doesn’t remember zoning out for ten minutes. He would have noticed the time passing, wouldn’t he?

Unless he’s losing time along with the ringing in his ears and pain in his head?

Stiles sags his weight against the wall, letting it hold him up. His breaths are uneven, his heart beating rapidly, but he’s determined not to have a panic attack here. Not now. Even if his nightmare is happening all over again. He will not fall apart; not like this.

 _“Look, I know this isn’t good timing, but the ambulance is on the move and I don’t want to lose Allison,”_ Greenberg says.

 _“I’m in the car, I can pick the others up if they meet me at the intersection by the strip mall,”_ Scott offers.

“How many blocks away?” Matt asks.

 _“Three,”_ Greenberg supplies.

“I’m on my way.” Matt’s eyes briefly dart to Stiles. “You coming or are you going to let this mission go to shit because you’re losing your marbles?”

Stiles sneers. No, he’s not going to let this mission fall apart. He’s not going to risk Allison or Scott’s safety. He specifically signed up for this to keep them safe.

If Allison pushed through her breakdown, so could he.

He follows Matt’s lead, the two of them jogging through the streets, dodging passers-by, and ignoring red lights.

 _“I’m two minutes away,”_ Scott announces as Stiles and Matt, panting heavily, slow to a stop in front of the local mall.

“Holding up okay?” Matt questions, sounding so genuine it leaves Stiles unsettled.

Irritated and embarrassed, he says, “I’m fine.”

“Okay, I believe you,” Matt says, like he doesn’t.

“And I don’t trust you.”

Matt releases a harsh, loud laugh. “Of course you don’t. What a fucking surprise,” he says with a mocking grin. His eyes are cold as he steps closer. Slowly. Threateningly. Muscles tense and rigid like his rage is wound tight within him, coiled and ready to spring. “This is getting ridiculous and pathetic. I understood why you hated me the first few years. I _did_. So I left you alone and kept my distance, even on missions, because I’m a nice guy. But, to hold a goddamn grudge for _six_ _years_ and then accuse me of a murder you committed, that makes _you_ the bad guy. Not me.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles snaps, feeling strangely unmoored. “Six years? Holding a grudge? Dude, what are you on?”

Matt’s been at the agency for nine years, not six. Nothing he said is making sense.

Matt’s hands tear at his hair in frustration. “I’m talking about you treating me like shit for years, hating me for _one_ decision I made. I was sixteen, okay? Of course I reported you! You would’ve gotten yourself killed, if not the entire agency!”

Like the ground’s giving way beneath him, Stiles’ stomach drops.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbles through numb lips.

“I caught you trying to escape, so I called Natalie and she dragged you away before you did too much damage to the East Wing. Part of the wall was blown open and they had to replace it after that. You’ve hated my guts ever since,” Matt recounts, a tightness to his mouth like the memory leaves a sour taste behind.

There’s no hint of pride in his features and the emotion in his voice is one that Stiles might hesitantly call ‘regret’.

“I don’t remember that at all.”

Matt barks out a hurt laugh. “Then why the _fuck_ do you hate me so much?”

Stiles mindlessly massages at the back of his neck, nervous. The question bothers him more than it should, cutting to the core of him like a bullet. Doubt spreads out of the invisible wound and pumps through his veins.

He skims through his memories, but, for as long as he can remember, his dislike of Matt has always been there, an intangible yet consistent aspect of their hostile acquaintanceship. There was something fundamentally wrong with Daehler, that was just a fact Stiles had instinctively known. He never doubted it, having been taught the importance of trusting one’s gut— and his said Matt Daehler wasn’t a good guy.

“I don’t know.” he says, voice tremulous.

It’s deeply unsettling.

If Matt’s telling the truth, and he’d caught Stiles trying to escape the agency, how could he forget that? That’s a huge life-changing event and isn’t simply _forgotten_. People don’t lose their memories of a single event without traumatic injury, and he was fine. It’s not like someone took them from him—

He yelps at the sharp pain in the back of his neck. He rubs the area, but there’s nothing there other than the residual sensation of pins and needles. He pulls his hand away, expecting to see blood, but it’s clean.

Though the pain had been fleeting, it was familiar. Something he’s experienced before. Sharp and spread out like…

Claws.

He inhales raggedly, momentarily reliving the last time he’d felt that exact sensation of claws plunging into his neck.

Words echo in his mind, a memory from not long ago. _“I can remove memories that may cause you… discomfort. Remove them from you completely, so that it’ll be as if they never happened.”_

Peter Hale.

Peter Hale had clawed his neck, searching through his memories, offering to remove them— acting like it’s the first time he’s done that to him.

But it wasn’t the first time, was it?

Sweat drips down his forehead, the nape of his neck, and pools along his lower back.

Peter was working at the agency six years ago, when Stiles was fifteen. If Stiles truly had tried to escape, it’d make sense for Natalie to take him to Peter, requesting that his memories of the prior months be wiped.

They couldn’t take everything. That’d be too noticeable. So they took just enough to keep him compliant.

How much? How many memories had they stolen from him? Had this happened before then too? Is that why he couldn’t remember his years before the agency? Did they have someone take that from him too?

How much of himself has he lost at the hands of the agency?

How much more is he going to lose?

Is that why he’s felt so distrustful towards Matt? Because, subconsciously, he remembered that Matt was responsible for what had happened to him?

Another puzzle piece drops into place. The picture’s almost complete.

Oblivious to Stiles’ revelation, Matt scans the area with a deep frown.

“Fuck this shit. Where’s Scott?”

The ground quakes, a massive crack forming between them. Stiles stumbles backwards, tripping and landing on his back on the sidewalk. Matt steps towards Stiles with a look of concern, unbothered by the earthquake wreaking havoc around them.

Except it isn’t an earthquake.

The world shakes violently in short, rhythmic bursts. Nothing like the earthquakes Stiles has seen on TV. Instead, it seems more like…

“What are you—”

Footsteps.

People scream in terror, fleeing as though they can outrun the disaster. Bricks fall from toppling buildings, smashing into pieces as they hit the ground. Cars crash into each other, into poles and buildings, falling through cracks that become valleys.

It’s chaos.

“Get up! What are you doing?” Matt extends a hand towards and Stiles grunts as someone bumps into him. His palms burn and scrape along the gravel, but he pushes to his feet.

He wishes he hadn’t.

A creature demolishes the town mall with its body. It’s an eerie clone of the abomination from the hunter’s den, except, unlike the other malformed monster, this one is more than capable of standing.

It’s also ten times its size, the tip of its back reaching beyond the height of the town’s tallest building.

With every step, it creates more rubble in the streets. It snatches cars with its trunk, flinging them at fleeing pedestrians.

Stiles is violently shaken back into focus. Matt’s face is an inch from his, eyes panicked and mouth moving rapidly on words he can’t hear past the ringing in his ears.

 _“Abort mission! Abort mission!”_ Allison’s screams break through the deafening silence and sound comes rushing back. It’s like the volume’s been turned up to full blast.

 _“We need help!”_ she pleads.

Stiles winces and covers his ears, tearing out his CommUnit when it malfunctions and releases a piercing whistle. It doesn’t ease the overwhelming cacophony of noise surrounding them, but it’s a start.

Matt watches him incredulously. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Nonsensical cries and shouts pick up at the sound of unexpected gunshots. Stiles and Matt both react instantaneously, drawing their handguns and scanning the area for the source.

“Where’s the van?!” Stiles snarls. “Where’s Greenberg?!”

“He’s just as confused as we are, asshole,” Matt snaps. “And you’d know that if you hadn’t removed your CommUnit!”

“It was malfunctioning.”

“Your brain is malfunctioning!” The comment is nasty and Matt’s face is a blotchy, angry red, but he appears scared more than anything else. His head tilts, eyes narrowing as if considering something being whispered in his ear.

“What’s going on? What’s he saying?” Stiles yells to be heard over the noise. “Matt?”

Matt refocuses on him. “What are you seeing?”

“What am I seeing? What are _you_ seeing?”

“ _Nothing_!” Matt exclaims, “That’s the problem!” He seems to get a hold of himself, softening his voice in a way Stiles has never heard from him. “I’m not seeing anything. Tell me what you’re seeing so we can figure this out.”

Thrown by Matt’s change in demeanor, Stiles says, “Monster. I see a monster. Chaos. People screaming. Buildings falling.” He has to close his eyes to get the words out, finding it easier to calmly relay the information when he wasn’t looking directly at it.

With dread, he waits for his fears to be confirmed.

That they aren’t seeing the same things.

“Okay. That’s— okay. It’s not real, you get that, right? You’re okay. I’m okay. There’s no monster here. Just grab my hand and we’ll figure this out. Focus on Scott and Allison for now. We can still complete this mission, and we’ll get you help at the agency, okay?”

Stiles opens his eyes to the sight of Matt’s outstretched hand. He swallows past the lump in his throat, forcing his panic down. There’s something seriously wrong with him, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to be alright, but Matt’s right. They need to complete the mission, they can’t abandon their teammates. Even if he’s in the midst of a mental breakdown.

Without a hint of doubt, he accepts the proffered hand.

“Where’s Walmart?” he mumbles, the familiar’s absence finally registering. After clinging to his side the past few days, it doesn’t make sense that he’d vanish now, when Stiles needs him the most.

“He’s here,” Matt answers softly. “He’s been here, at your feet.”

But he’s not. He’s not here, and Stiles’ hasn’t seen him in hours. Why can’t he see him? Why—

“I can’t see him,” he gasps, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. He needs to calm down before he starts hyperventilating, but he can’t focus on anything other than the fact that he can’t find his familiar.

“Keep it together!” Matt commands, his tone harsh even as his hand comfortingly squeezes Stiles’.

Keep it together. For Scott and Allison.

Gunshots smack holes into the pavement around them and bullets ping against buildings in a dangerous ricochet. The two agents pitter backwards, eyes on nearby rooftops, seeking out the shooter, but finding none.

Stiles briefly wonders if the shots are a figment of his imagination too, but his stomach rolls unpleasantly at the furious frustration on Matt’s face.

This attack is real.

The screaming of bystanders picks up and Stiles jolts as someone carelessly shoves into him from behind.

“We have a shooter! Greenberg, do you have eyes on them?” Matt asks, but Stiles can’t hear the answer. He can’t hear Greenberg anymore.

He’s cut off from everyone.

Other than Matt.

Is the screaming around them real, now that someone is shooting? Are people running to get away from a hidden gunman, or is that part of his imagination too? He doesn’t know what to think and doesn’t have any choice but to hold onto Matt’s hand just a little bit tighter.

The agency van flies down the street, screeching to a halt in the middle of the road, careless of the uneven gravel and fleeing pedestrians. Then again, the driver doesn’t have to worry about those in reality.

It’s fake. He has to keep reminding himself, or else he’ll slip into believing these delusions once more. There’s no telling what kind of damage he might do if that happens.

One of the van’s back doors flies open. He glimpses Allison through the shifting mass of imaginary people.

“We need to go! They know I’m with the agency!” she cries out.

Stiles can barely see over the crowd of people, but he shoves his way through the chaos anyway. His swim upstream is halted by a tug on his wrist.

He’s still gripping Matt’s hand.

“What are you two doing?! Come on— we don’t have time!” Allison shouts. “They know—”

Matt’s eyeing Allison with a calculated look. He shakes his head curtly, yelling in Stiles’ ear to be heard over the noisy crowd, “Something doesn’t feel right!”

A gunshot hits the ground a foot away. The crowd’s panic ramps up and Matt’s hand slips out of his.

“Fuck!” Matt yelps. “We gotta go!” Stiles agrees and heads for the van, but Matt grabs him again, more harshly this time. He’s frantically shaking his head. “Not with—”

Another gunshot sounds.

It happens so quickly, it almost doesn’t register. One minute, Matt is talking, and the next, he’s slumped on the ground in a pool of blood. His eyes are wide and unseeing and Stiles imagines he must look similar, even though he’s still standing. Still breathing. Still alive.

His face is wet and his lip darts out, tasting the bitter tang of blood. He peers down at his hands, but there’s no weapon on them. He hadn’t done it. It wasn’t him. He hadn’t shot Matt, despite how much he’d wanted to these past few months.

Somehow it isn’t much of a reassurance.

A woman screams violently in his right ear and things become muffled, a loud ringing in his head dulling nearly everything else.

His left ear works well enough to faintly hear Allison calling out his name, voice laden with panic and fear.

Another shot rings out, and Stiles is so numb, the echoing ache of a phantom impact in his chest barely registers. He doesn’t even realize what it means until he notices Walmart sprawled out and unmoving at his feet. Exactly where Matt had said he’d been, even though Stiles couldn’t see him.

Not since they’d arrived at the town.

This whole time, he hadn’t seen him. As if he’d been made invisible.

He lurches forward absently, unable to deal with this now. He needs to get to safety first, before he ends up like Matt and Walmart.

He dashes towards the van, frantically zig-zagging to avoid the shots hitting the ground around him.

He’s almost there—

Almost—

He throws himself into the van, panting as the doors slam shut behind him.

Goosebumps pebble his arms and his vision swims. Groaning, he grasps at his head to ease the intense pain. It doesn’t abate. He sways to his feet and plops down onto the seat, his back pressed against the cool metal of the van, using it like a makeshift icepack.

Scott sits across from him, abnormally grim, his gaze unwavering from his feet.

“You okay, man?”

Scott reluctantly looks up, and Stiles’ stomach sinks at the deadened quality to his eyes. The look of pure devastation. His eyes flit down to his wrists and Stiles stops breathing.

Why is he in handcuffs?

“What’s going on?”

Allison steps closer, standing next to Scott. There’s something about her he doesn’t recognize.

“I can explain, if you let me,” she says gently. “I promise this will all make sense.”

“No,” Stiles breathes. Not wanting to believe it. He’s still hallucinating, he must be. “Al…?”

“It’s not what you think, I swear,” she says adamantly.

“You betrayed us? Me? _Scott_?” Stiles’ voice breaks.

She shakes her head, lifting her hands placatingly. “No, no, no— I didn’t. Listen to me, please. They’re— _we’re_ not the bad guys. My aunt and Grandfather have been trying to make a cure. A _cure_ for supernaturals.”

He tries to summon his magic forward, only to realize with a dull horror that nothing’s there. He’s cut off from his magic. The ambulance is made with iron.

“You’ve seen what they do to people like us,” he says instead, mouth dry and tongue thick in his mouth. He still feels nauseous and cold— though the latter sensation might be more due to the presence of iron than Allison’s betrayal. He’s not sure. Without permission, his mind replays images of the atrocities they’d discovered in the hunters’ dens and he briefly shuts his eyes to will the images away. “Those experiments…”

“They were for a good reason. Sometimes, in the search for a cure, lives are lost. People are hurt—”

“Bullshit!”

“You know, better than anyone, how sacrifices are necessary to get blessings! This cure is our blessing,” Allison implores.

“It’s not the same. In witchcraft, sacrifices must be made willingly! Your victims were not willing.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is?!”

“We have a cure!” she shouts, eyes glossy with tears. “We’re going to end this war.” Her smile is wobbly with emotion, imploring him to understand. To be excited too. “Finally, after all these years, it’ll all be over.”

“By getting rid of supernatural creatures?”

“By saving them. Returning them to normal. The sirens will get another chance— a chance grow up and live happy, normal lives. Dawa and her village can live among civilization. The agency will no longer be necessary. You’ll be free. Everyone will be free.”

It’s too fantastical to be true or have any basis in reality, despite how desperately Stiles wishes it were.

“Why?” Scott rasps, finally finding his voice.

“I did this for you, Scott. For _us_. Because I love you,” Allison answers.

“Because you love him, but you hate werewolves,” Stiles interprets.

Allison has the gall to appear hurt by the accusation. “I don’t hate shifters, but it’s not natural. It’s an illness. A disease. And we’ve found a cure for it. We can heal you— both of you— and make you normal again. You can have the life you’ve always wanted.”

“What if I don’t want to be normal?” Scott asks. “What if I like who I am now?”

“How can you say that? I was there when you got bit, Scott! You were devastated. Becoming a werewolf ruined your life,” she says. “You wanted to be a doctor alongside Deaton. To help people, not kill them. You never wanted to be in the field. You could have died and the agency wouldn't have cared at all. But I care! I care _so much,_ because I _love_ you.”

“You’re kidnapping me and bringing me to the hunters!” Scott argues.

“To save you!” she yells, like their refusal to see things her way is frustrating her. “We’re going to cure you, so you can have a normal life again. So that you can be happy again.”

Scott goes eerily quiet, watching Allison like she’s ripped his heart out. He looks worse than he did when he had gotten bit.

“I am happy. It hasn’t always been ideal, sure, but I am happy. Or, at least, I thought I was,” Scott mumbles. “I thought you were too.”

Allison averts her gaze, her chin wobbling ominously. “You’ll see. When they fix you, you’ll understand. I did this for you. For us. Everything will work out fine. Please trust me.”

Stiles can’t.

“You said it yourself, they wanted us to continue this war. Now you’re saying they want to end it, and you expect us to believe that?”

“Not everyone believes in the cure, or believes that werewolves can become human. They want to keep fueling this feud, but once we cure enough people and prove it to them that it can be done, they’ll be convinced,” Allison implores. “Aren’t you tired of this war? Don’t you want it to end?”

“Kate doesn’t want things to end by making us equals. She would never,” Stiles says.

“You don’t know her like I do. You only know the lies Derek’s told you.”

Stiles bites his tongue, holding back an angry retort. He knew she wasn’t Derek’s biggest fan; she’d always been quick to draw her weapon against him.

He never expected this level of hatred though.

“They weren’t lies. You’re brainwashed.”

He desperately wants to believe her, to believe in a cure, but he can’t. Not if trusting her means trusting hunters, least of all Kate Argent— the woman who seduced an underage boy with the intent to manipulate him for information so she could burn down his home and kill his family. People can change, but not that much.

The heartless can’t develop a soul, no matter how much time passes.

“Please,” she begs. “There’s so much good we can do with this cure.”

“And the alphas?” Stiles asks. Off Allison’s confused glance, he expands, “What about the alphas? What’s their role in all of this?”

“Nothing. They were failures from the first round of experiments. They were going to be released once it had been deemed safe.” She sounds so confident, completely believing what she’s saying, even as Stiles scoffs at the absurdity of it. She’s fallen so hard for the hunters’ propaganda, she may never see the light of reality again.

But Stiles isn’t blinded by faith, and there’s no way those alphas were created by accident.

“How did they become alphas?”

Allison falters as she searches for answer she doesn’t have. “It was a side effect of the experiments—”

“An undesired side effect that somehow kept repeating over and over again?”

“Yes,” she says, clearly not understanding his point.

“Have they showed you proof of the cure working?” he asks. There’s a flicker of doubt in Allison’s expression. It’s answer enough. “You never cared to ask? You just took them at their word?”

“My aunt wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I bet she would, if the end justifies it. She killed Derek’s family without a second thought. What’s a lie compared to that?”

“That wasn’t her. She swore to me— she would never. If you give her a chance, if you meet her, you’ll see. You’ll understand.”

Stiles presses back against the cold metal wall, sagging his weight against it, defeated. Allison doesn’t see it, but he does understand. He understands too well, in fact.

She can’t see the strings attached to her, pulling her like a puppet, but he can.

“They tricked you,” he says. “They were never making a cure and those alphas weren’t failures. They were _successes_.”

He may not know why right now, but doesn’t need to. He’ll find out soon enough.

Desperation colors Allison's tone as she realizes they won’t believe her. “That’s not true. You’re not _listening_ to me. If you’d just—”

Stiles sighs. “Why am I here?”

“Because we can save you too.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “We’re friends, but let’s not pretend you’d go out of your way to save me. Why am I here?”

For a moment she looks like she’s about to lie again, to refute his statement, but then her shoulders slump, her demeanor changing. “We need more magic to make it work on a larger scale. To be able to cure more people at once.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that she says “we need _more_ magic”, not “we need magic”. So it’s true then. They already have a magic user at their disposal. But who?

“Who’s ‘we’?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but the van’s partition slides open and a sickeningly saccharine voice beats her to the reveal.

“Buckle up, children. Safety first,” Kate Argent says from the driver’s seat. She winks in the rearview mirror, her eyes glinting with amusement. Stiles’ stomach bottoms out as a familiar inky blackness swallows her eyes whole.

He yelps and shouts as half-rotted human arms tear out of the seat cushions, grabbing at him harshly and restraining him as he struggles against their hold.

“Kate,” Allison chides.

The hands vanish and Kate’s eyes return to normal. It doesn’t take much for the next puzzle piece to slot into place.

“You’re a witch,” Stiles says.

His magic revolves around his own belief, allowing him skills and abilities he wouldn’t have otherwise, but Kate’s magic must involve influencing the minds of others.

She’s been messing with him this whole time. He wasn’t going crazy, she was _making_ him crazy.

Kate laughs and Stiles flinches as her eyes flood with darkness once again.

“I think that’s enough chit chat for now.”

Everything goes black.

o0o0o0o

Stiles comes to as he and Scott are unceremoniously tossed into a holding cell by some hunter lackeys. It’s not a clean and sterile doctor’s office like he would have imagined thanks to Allison’s “cure” talk. It’s essentially what Stiles had expected.

It’s freezing and damp, and the cold settling deep into his bones tells him that the rough stone floors and walls are likely infused with iron. Perhaps wolfsbane too, going by Scott’s annoyed grunt.

The room is filled with shadows, the only source of light being a minuscule, barred window towards the top of the far wall. Moonlight shines in, not lighting up much else other than a small corner, but it’s enough to make-out the faint silhouette of a curled up figure.

“Hello?” Stiles calls out.

Silence.

Deciding to attempt some levity, he licks his lips and tries again.

“Looks like we’re roommates. I’m Stiles and this is my buddy, Scott.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s difficult to discern the speaker from the deep shadows of the cell, but he would recognize that voice anywhere.

His heart leaps into his throat, threatening to choke him, but he manages to choke out a stunned, “Heather?”

“Shut up and go away!” Heather snarls, lurching forward and letting the moonlight fall on her. Her blonde hair is in disarray, her lip curled up in a snarl and eyes wild. Stiles would almost think she were feral, if it weren’t for the way her eyes remained distinctly human. She’s wearing the standard SUPE uniform, though it’s stained and ripped, worn and wrinkled like it’s gone unwashed for some time. The skin under her eyes is dark and her cheekbones are more prominent than they’d been when he’d last seen her.

“Heather,” Stiles breathes.

Weakly, she whispers, “please shut up,” as she scoots back against the wall, a defeated curve to her back.

Stiles moves closer and reaches out to comfort her. The heavy iron chain between his wrists clinks with the movement.

“Are you…” the question dies on his tongue. He can’t ask if she’s okay. She’s obviously not. None of them are. They’re light-years away from being okay.

“They’re not real, they’re not here,” Heather mumbles to herself, eyes scrunching closed and Stiles’ heart breaks. His hands lower and he glances desperately at Scott, but he seems equally at a loss of what to do.

“We’re real. We’re here,” Scott says.

“Though I wish we weren’t,” Stiles jokes, easing down onto the mildewy rock. Might as well get comfortable. They’re going to be here a while.

Heather’s muttering pauses as she briefly spares them another glance.

“You’ve never come with Scott before,” she says whisper-soft.

“How many times have you seen me here?”

“I lost count.”

Stiles considers this. “I can assure you I’ve never been here before. I’d definitely remember it. The musty smell would be difficult to forget.”

Heather’s lips curl in a semblance of a smile.

“You get used to it.” She stares at them more openly now, no longer sneaking glances. Wide blue eyes repeatedly drag over them both, like they can’t believe what they’re seeing. “You’re not hurt.”

“Well, my ego’s a little bruised—”

“You’re not dying this time.”

Stiles’ chest clenches painfully at the awe in her voice. ‘This time’ she said. ‘You’re not dying _this time_ ’. What did that mean?

“No,” he answers, eyes flitting nervously to Scott. “Was I dying… before?”

With watery eyes, Heather nods, her hands clenching at her knees.

“Whenever they threw you in here, you were nearly torn to shreds. She liked to make me watch you die.”

It clicks and Stiles swallows past the lump in his throat.

“Kate Argent. Their witch,” he deduces. Heather nods. “She can make you see things.”

Things that aren’t really there. Horrific things like a traitorous teammate with a loaded gun, earthquakes and building-sized monsters, and dying torn-apart siblings.

He knows that trick well.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” he says, “but I’m here now. I’m real. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to be,” she sobs brokenly. “You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here? How did they get you?”

“Allison. She’s been brainwashed by her family. She thinks they can cure Scott’s lycanthropy, so she kidnapped us and brought us here to be ‘returned to normal’. Crazy, right?”

Heather’s expression shutters closed.

“Heather?”

“It’s my fault,” she mumbles. Stiles blinks in confusion.

“No, it’s not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It is. She thinks lycanthropy can be cured because—” Heather takes a shuddering breath, “—because it’s true. I did it.”

“What?” Scott asks, interest piquing as hope floods his features.

“I cured Laura. Kate had a spell to remove the alpha’s spark, but she couldn’t do it alone. As she read the spell, I draw a picture and I pulled the wolf out of her, making it a separate entity. It had worked. She was human— _completely_ _human_ — but only for a few minutes.”

“She died,” Stiles guesses.

“The process killed her,” Heather confirms.

“How…?” There are so many ways he could finish that sentence. How was she brought back? How did she survive? How did she become an alpha again?

Heather shrugs like she hadn’t just revealed that she’s fundamentally changed the nature of the supernatural-and-hunter war forever.

“I tore up the picture. The wolf went back to her. But she had lost her alpha spark.”

“Because it went to Derek,” Stiles says. It doesn’t escape his notice that Scott’s unusually silent, likely still processing the recent groundbreaking information they’ve been given. “How did she become an alpha again?”

Heather’s head snaps up, her mouth parted in unhappy surprise.

“How do you know that?” she asks, a harshness to her tone that hadn’t been there prior. “She isn’t at the agency, is she? You didn’t bring her there, did you? Please tell me you didn’t.” She clutches his arms, a wild look in her eyes.

“It’s fine. She’s fine. You need to calm down,” Stiles tries to reassure, but Heather only panics more.

“How many are there? How many alphas were brought back to the agency?” she asks demandingly. He shakes his head helplessly, unsure of the exact number. She rubs her palms against her eyes and groans. “Oh God. They’re all going to die. Everyone’s going to die.”

“What are you talking about? Talk to me.”

He’d had his suspicions about the alphas, had figured they were a trap in some way, but they all seemed fine. Normal. And he can’t imagine a scenario in which Laura would willingly turn against her own family.

“The first trial was removing an alpha’s status,” Heather admits lowly, her demeanor radiating shame. “Curing lycanthropy, even if only temporarily, was an unintended side-effect. The real goal was what happened in the second trial.”

“Do I want to know?” Stiles jokes weakly.

“They made me create alphas.”

“That doesn’t sound _that_ bad. Obviously, it’s not good, but it’s not the end of the world.”

Heather shakes her head, like he’s being willfully ignorant and missing the obvious. Perhaps he is.

“It will be. When Kate figures out how to control them; to influence their minds and make them see things, think things, and do things they wouldn’t normally do,” she utters darkly. “Laura might not want to kill her brother, but she’ll have no problem with it if she thinks she’s killing a hunter.”

It’ll be like when Stiles had attacked Laura, shooting her while thinking she had been Matt Daehler. Shooting his best friend hadn’t been difficult, not when he thought she was someone else.

The thought of her being tricked into killing Derek or Cora, only to realize after what she’d done…

He stops himself from imagining it. It’s a prospect too awful to consider.

“Imagine hundreds of alphas under her control, all of them positive that they’re experiencing reality when they’re not.”

“She’ll have an army of alpha werewolves,” Stiles says tremulously.

“They might not be doing that though,” Scott says. “What if they really do want to cure us? You even said it was possible—”

“Did you miss the part where I said it was also deadly?” Heather says snidely, unwilling to consider the possibility that the hunters were anything but the bad guys.

“Allison said they just needed more magic—”

“Because Kate can’t influence more than one person at a time and, right now, she can only influence someone whose blood she’s had contact with. She needs Stiles in order to change that.”

“But what if—”

“Look around you, Scott!” Heather exclaims. “Does this look like a cozy, welcoming place to you? We’re prisoners, you _moron_. Your perfect little girlfriend betrayed you. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

“Why do you have to act like such a jerk?”

“Why did your girlfriend have to be a traitorous bitch?”

Scott’s chains rattle as he lurches forward. Stiles steps in the way, hands pushing against his shoulders to keep him back as he tries to calm him down.

“Don’t call her that!” Scott shouts at Heather, ignoring Stiles completely.

“Scott, knock it off!” Stiles snaps, his own patience growing thin.

Heather guffaws, becoming more lively as vicious anger replaces her shame and self-blame.

“Oh my god, seriously? You’re still defending her? Holy shit, dude. Way to drink the entire jug of Kool-Aid.”

“Flavor-aid,” Stiles absently corrects, regretting instantly when faced with Scott’s pissed-off glare.

Thankfully, or not so thankfully, Scott’s fury appears unwilling to waver from its original target.

“You could try being more positive.”

“I’m _positive_ you’re not going to make it out of here alive, because, if the hunters don’t kill you, I just might,” Heather snaps. “‘You could try being more positive’ my ass. You don’t know what I’ve been through!”

“Enough!” Stiles yells at them both. “If we want to stand a chance at getting out of here, we need to work together.” Scott pulls out of Stiles’ grip and stomps back towards his corner.

“We’re not getting out of here,” Heather says simply, her head lolling back tiredly against the wall. “We don’t stand a chance. Not when Kate’s so close to getting what she wants.”

“Which is?”

Moonlight seems to hit her perfectly, the pale silver light accentuating the coldness in her eyes.

“Three witches in one place and Halloween just around the corner.”

“It’s twenty days away,” Stiles says.

“Time flies when you’re getting tortured,” Heather says flatly and without an ounce of warmth. She offers him a crooked smile. “Happy Samhain, bro. Hope you brought a sacrifice with you, otherwise things might get a lil ‘Cain and Abel’ up in here.”

Stiles shudders at the thought of killing her, of losing another member of his family again. He won’t do it. He refuses.

They’re going to find a way out.

They have to.

A shadow passes over Heather’s face and Stiles glances up at the sound of flapping wings. Walmart sits at the window, fitting easily between the bars. Black, beady eyes peer down at them.

Stiles offers him a small smile, relief washing over him at the sight of his familiar. It’s a strange sensation, actually _missing_ Walmart, but his absence earlier had been disconcerting. Seeing him now, knowing that Kate isn’t able to permanently hide him from Stiles’ view is comforting.

Funny how quickly things change in life. Never before would he have thought that the sight of Walmart would be comforting, but it is.

He’s one more ally to rely on, one more family member Stiles can’t afford to lose.

“We can make it out of here. We just have to come up with a plan,” he declares.

Heather’s expression remains cautious. Doubtful. She opens her mouth and freezes, body going rigid with horror as the heavy metal door creaks open.

“Time for a chat,” Kate says merrily, like she’s greeting old friends rather than hostages. Rough hands grab at Stiles’ shoulders as two henchmen drag him towards the door. No amount of kicking and twisting loosens their hold on him. Without his magic or weapons, he’s nothing more than a rag doll at their mercy.

“No, please, no! Leave him alone! Please. Please, take me. Not him,” Heather pleads, futilely reaching out for him.

“Sorry, it’s not your turn. Maybe next time,” Kate says.

A third lackey tazes Scott when he rushes forward, and he drops to the ground with a heavy thud.

Walmart shrieks and dives towards Kate, only to smack into the ground when a bullet pierces his chest. Stiles grunts at the dull bloom of pain in his chest. He grits his teeth as fingers pull at his hair, tilting his head back until his furious eyes meet Kate’s soulless ones.

“Oh, you’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Good. I like them with some spirit,” she croons and Stiles winces as her fingers tighten in his hair. “You and I are going to have so much fun together.”

“I think our definitions of fun might be a little different,” he grits out.

She laughs— hoarse and deep in a way that’d be alluring if he didn’t know how batshit crazy she was— and releases her grip.

Heather’s screams echo against the walls as he’s hauled through the dungeon-like hallway, unaware of what hell he’s about to face. He’ll survive whatever they throw at him. They need him.

It might be terrible and scarring, but he’ll survive it. He’ll endure.

Closing his eyes, he recalls how comforted and safe he had felt when he’d woken up next to Derek that morning.

He never should have left.

He spends the rest of the night screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... thoughts? Your comments are my fuel and (only) reward for writing this beast. Please tell me it's worth it haha <3
> 
>  **My questions for you:** 1\. Was it who you thought? 2. Were you surprised, yes/no? 3. How much do you hate me right now on a scale of 1-10? 4. Did you enjoy the chapter?!


	17. Three Witches, Three Wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK FROM VACATION! Here's a huge ass chapter as a reward for all you guys being patient with me~
> 
>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Heavily implied (off-screen) child abuse. Also, some death, mild torture, extreme sadness and stuff. Y'know. The usual. But slightly worse. 
> 
> Also, this feels kinda silly to say after all we've been through so far in this story, but... please be in a good headspace for this chapter. It's a bit of a doozy.

_Claudia hummed a wordless tune as she washed her hands in the lounge sink. Technically it was for cleaning coffee mugs and dessert bowls, but nobody was in the vicinity. She was alone, the way she preferred to be._

_With a plucked needle from her cactus familiar, Spike, she carefully scraped away the last remnants of dried blood from underneath her nail beds. Poor hygiene was inexcusable, no matter one’s profession._

_A knock at the door instantly put her on edge. Nobody knocked before entering the communal lounge. Tossing her hair up in a messy bun, she slid the cactus needle inside the fray and called out for the guest to enter._

_A flash of familiar red hair was enough to sour her mood considerably. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Natalie. They got along incredibly well. So well that sometimes it felt like they were family more than coworkers. But, it was never a good thing to be visited by the Director after a mission. It usually meant she’d fucked up somehow._

_“Good evening, Claudia. How are you doing today? Your mission went smoothly, I presume?” Natalie greeted._

_“What did I do wrong?” Claudia asked, never having been a fan of beating around the bush._

_Natalie smiles like she’s done something cute. “Nothing, my dear.”_

_“Then what are you here for?” Claudia questioned, not unkindly. It's a genuine question, though drenched with caution._

_Yes, she and Natalie got along well. They had similar long-term goals and dreams of revenge against the hunters, and those similarities kept them in each other’s good graces more often than not. They’d known each other for years, knew intimate details of each other’s pasts, traumas, and losses, and a bond had naturally formed between them. They were each other’s family now, dysfunctional as their dynamic may be. It felt like Claudia was her devoted daughter, obsessively working to achieve even an ounce of Natalie’s approval._

_She had never won any and was starting to think it might be an impossible endeavor._

_“A special opportunity has arisen and I think you’re the perfect fit,” Natalie said in lieu of scolding Claudia’s poor manners._

_“Does it involve slaughtering large numbers of hunters? If so, I’m in.”_

_“Not quite. This is a different kind of opportunity.”_

_Claudia scoffed, facing the sink to dry the bloodied knives soaking there. She knew what ‘a different kind of opportunity’ was code for. Another boring assignment._

_Why did Natalie want her to waste her time with bullshit missions? She was twenty-four and in her prime. Hunters were falling dead at her feet in numbers far greater than any of their agents. She was the agency’s best weapon. Why should she waste her talents on anything but avenging her family and ridding the world of the hunter plague?_

_Natalie knew her past; she knew what Claudia lost before the refuge was formed. Before Natalie had created it and Claudia, devastated by the lost of her loved ones, helped her turn the idea into a functioning agency._

_In return for her assistance, Natalie had given her the best missions and a long leash to operate with. It was a win-win for everyone. Natalie had a ruthlessly efficient killer on her side, the agency was busier than ever with new arrivals and rescues, and Claudia was allowed to enact her revenge— to bathe her hands in the blood of human monsters._

_What ‘opportunity’ could be more important than that?_

_“I already told you, I’m not interested in bullshit recon missions.” Claudia gesticulated animatedly as she talked, a soapy knife in her grasp. “There will be bloodshed or there will be no Claudia.”_

_“You will get to utilize your talents in a new and unique way.”_

_The spark of something akin to amusement in Natalie’s voice gave Claudia pause. She sheathed the knife at her belt and her anxious fingers tapped a rhythmless beat against the leather._

_“I’m listening.”_

_“When we formed this agency, it was with the hope of seeing justice prevail. You have been vital to our success thus far, but we need to focus on the future.”_

_Claudia listened in silent consideration, open-minded and patient. Until the next sentence passed Natalie’s red lips._

_“I have a pupil for you to train.”_

_Claudia snorted haughtily and returned to the task of drying the remaining knives. Though Natalie had been dismissed, she wasn’t giving up that easily. Of course not. The agency would never have been created if their Director gave in at the first sign of trouble._

_Natalie sidled closer, tone seductive despite her words being anything but. “I’m offering you the chance to spread your knowledge, to pass on your skills to another—”_

_Claudia swiveled around and shoved a finger in Natalie’s direction. Suds dripped from her hand and puddled at their feet. “You want to bench me to become some kid’s tutor? Seriously? You can’t take me out of the field, I’m the best we have. You wouldn’t stand a chance without me!” Claudia seethed, voice pitched low and dangerous with quiet fury._

_“I know you are,” Natalie calmly stated. “And what happens to us if you are killed on a mission? We need to start planning ahead. Please. You can say no, but please— meet him first.”_

_Him. A boy then._

_Claudia’s stomach lurched unpleasantly._

_“I’m not interested,” she said, standing her ground despite Natalie’s disapproving frown._

_Another knock came._

_Claudia’s eyes narrowed, suspicions soaring as Natalie loftily called out, “Come in.”_

_Deaton stepped through the doorway and Claudia’s heart leapt into her throat. Holding his hand was a young boy— only four or five years old. The boy’s clothes were lightly singed and littered with holes. His hair was shaved down, military-style. Patches of scabs along his scalp hinted that it had been carelessly done, the razor having cut too closely in areas._

_Adorable moles and awful purple bruises were stark against his soot-stained face. Even with the dirt marring his skin, the sickly pale pallor of his skin was visible. Whether from malnutrition or fear, it wasn’t yet clear. His honey-brown eyes were closed-off and abnormally dull for a boy his age, and prior tears left visible tracks behind through dirt and ash._

_A child should have been examining the new environment with open curiosity, but instead, the boy stared at the wooden floor with dread, like a criminal awaiting execution. Claudia’s shoulders slumped with sympathy. Whatever he’d been through, it had obviously been traumatizing._

_She could only speculate as to how those bruises came about and it made her hands clench into fists. How could anyone could treat a child like that? Children were innocent. A gift. How dare anyone take such a blessing for granted. Especially in this world, where blessings were so few and far between._

_That someone could hurt this precious boy, when people like Claudia, who loved children with all her heart, had lost her—_

_She covered her mouth with a hand to hold back a whimper. It was still too fresh a wound to think about, and this was only pouring salt in it. With glossy eyes and an unspoken question upon her lips, Claudia looked to Natalie for explanation._

_Deaton was the one who answered._

_“We found him waiting on the front steps.”_

_The thought of the boy standing outside in the woods, cold and alone at their front door only made the squeezing sensation in Claudia’s chest tighten further._

_Natalie’s shrewd gaze landed on the demure child. “Tell us your name, little one.”_

_“Stiles,” the boy answered, more of a reluctant mumble than a willing offering._

_“Where’s his family?” Claudia asked. Neither Deaton nor Natalie offered an answer. “Hey, little guy, where’s your family?”_

_Stiles hunched further, as though trying to physically shrink out of sight. “Dunno.”_

_“Privacy spell, please,” Natalie requested and Claudia obliged. A soft shimmer surrounded the three adults, blocking them from the young boy’s ears. “He walked here.”_

_Claudia frowned down at Stiles, small and defenseless. How far had he traveled, alone, before arriving here?_

_“He_ walked _here? We’re in the middle of a forest.”_

 _“I checked the security cameras. He hiked through the woods to get here, never stopping nor taking a wrong turn. He didn’t stumble upon us, he came_ to _us,” Deaton said, disquiet evident in the lines creasing his forehead._

_Without a map or guide to lead the way, he’d found his way to them. How was that possible?_

_“According to local news, there had been a fire about twenty miles away a few days ago. An entire family was killed. All the bodies were recovered, except for a little boy who was missing,” Deaton continued, to Claudia’s growing horror._

_“Do you think it was hunters?” she asked, focusing on that instead of the awful implication that a four-year-old child might’ve spent the past few days walking twenty miles on foot._

_“No. I don’t think it was,” Natalie said. Her eyes slid past Claudia and her lips pressed into a thin line. Claudia followed her line of sight, inhaling sharply as she’s met with demonic black eyes gazing back at her._

_Eyes eerily similar to her own._

_Her heart ached with longing. If he hadn’t died, would her son have looked at her with black eyes too? The hunters had stolen everything from her— the two loves of her life— and she had spent the last few years massacring them in revenge, but it never eased the weight of that loss. It never dulled the pain._

_But here stood this boy, who was so much like her, with his brown hair and brown eyes that turned jet-black. He could easily pass as her son. Her own blood._

_He could never replace what she lost, but perhaps he could dull some of the pain. If only a little._

_This was the blessing from the Universe she had been begging for. She knew it. Without any doubt, she_ knew. _This boy was hers now, and she wouldn’t lose what belonged to her. Not again. Never again._

_“He needs someone to teach him control. He needs a mentor,” Natalie said, like Claudia hadn’t already made up her mind._

_As if Claudia could have said ‘no’ to this boy. She never stood a chance._

_“I can hear you,” Stiles said softly. Dazed, Claudia suddenly realized he had countered her silencing charm with his own magic, his irritation creating enough magical energy to bring down the barrier with ease._

_Her lips twitched upwards and she eyed him with a new type of interest. He had potential, there was no doubt about that, and he must have incredibly powerful instincts if that’s what led him here._

_Or maybe it wasn’t instincts at all. Maybe it was something_ more _._

_Claudia lowered herself until they were level, her curious brown eyes meeting his hesitant ones._

_“How did you find us?” she asked._

_He shrugged noncommittally. “A shadow.”_

_“You followed a shadow?”_

_Stiles nodded. “A bird.”_

_“A bird’s shadow?” Claudia glanced up at a nearby window. It was well past midnight and had been dark for hours. How had he followed a shadow at night? “Where’s the bird now?”_

_Uninterested in the mystery of it all, Stiles shrugged again with a bored expression. “He’s not real. He’s just a shadow.”_

_“I see.” Claudia’s mind whirred with possibilities. It was conceivable he might have a familiar that hadn’t been fully realized yet, though such a thing was rare except in cases of severe trauma. Which, to be fair, seemed more likely in this case._

_Or, as silly as it sounded, it could simply be nothing more than an act of magic._

_Her eyes drifted over the many bruises on his small body, dark splotches visible on his arms and through the holes of his tattered clothing. It hurt to look at._

_Briefly, she recalled the pleasure of killing, of glancing down at blood-soaked hands and lifeless bodies. Despite how much she wanted to tear his abusers apart while they begged for mercy that would never come, she knew they were likely already dead— burned to death in their so-called ‘home’._

_She squandered the urge and snuffed out the fire of rage in her heart that called for blood and vengeance. Hatred and revenge would be of no benefit to him now. He needed safety and a home. Patience and kindness. A teacher._

_A mother._

_She offered him a gentle smile and outstretched hand._

_“Hey there. I’m Claudia. I’m going to be your teacher. I’m sure we’re going to have lots of fun together, but how about we find you some clean clothes first, hmm?”_

_It was the best she could come up with. Though she adored them, she’d never had much experience with children. The Universe had stolen that opportunity from her._

_It was time that mistake was remedied._

_The way Stiles anxiously gnawed at his lower lip and stared at her hand with suspicion spoke of deep-seated mistrust, like he expected these new adults to fail him as badly as others had._

_He was far too young to look so beaten down. It would probably take a long time to gain his trust, but…_

_“You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m just like you.”_

_Blackness bled into her eyes and swallowed them whole, proving to him that they were one and the same. Not just outside, but inside too. Beyond the unnatural color of their eyes. Both of them survivors, traumatized by loss, mistrustful of others, and lonely._

_One in the same. No longer alone in the world._

_They were the pieces of the puzzle each other was lacking. A mother without a son, and a boy without a home._

_Stiles blinked owlishly, his lips slowly— little by little— pulling up into a tiny smile. Tentatively, he grasped her hand, his tiny palm fitting so perfectly with her own._

_Claudia grinned back at him— a genuine smile that caused her eyes to crinkle and warmth to spread through her chest. She hadn’t smiled so sincerely in a long time._

_She’d forgotten how good it felt._

_“Okay,” he said softly._

_“Okay,” she echoed. “Let’s go, bud.”_

  
o0o0o0o  


When Stiles is tossed back into the cell, bleeding profusely and barely conscious, he distantly notes that Walmart’s lifeless body is still on the ground.

The sight, and its implication, sends a jolt of fear through him. Walmart’s corpse has never lingered before. Though it’s not a surprise, it is concerning. It’s to be expected that he wouldn’t bounce back as quickly from injuries, not when he’s stuck in his solid form thanks to the iron cage around them and cuffs circling Stiles’ wrists. While he can still morph into various shapes, he won’t be able to do much else. Not without the aid of magic. Unlike in the past, recovery will take longer now that he can’t simply “walk it off” by shifting into smoke or hiding in another dimension. He’s trapped inside a mortal body, stuck waiting for it to heal. It’s an exhausting process, and it will only take another good hit or two before he won’t be able to get back up. Walmart has a finite amount of energy now that he’s cut off from Stiles and, without magic or plums, said energy is depleting quickly with no end in sight.

At least it won’t kill him. Physical injuries can’t do that, but it’ll eventually render him unable to communicate. Like a cruel version of purgatory; it must be its own kind of torture.

With that awful thought passing through Stiles’ mind, and Heather’s fingers gently combing through his hair, he shivers against the cold ground and loses consciousness.

 

Time passes agonizingly slowly. A tiny barred window high up along the concrete wall helps them gain some semblance of passing time, but they lose track whenever they’re dragged out for undisclosed periods of time.

Not knowing how long they’ve been locked away or how long they have left before Samhain is indescribably frustrating. They could’ve been here for weeks already. Or only days.

Heather’s head is pillowed on Stiles’ shoulder. Her oily and knotted blonde mess of hair shines bright in the daylight streaming in from the window. Stiles figures his hair must be in similar condition and he doesn’t envy Scott’s supernatural powers. A heightened sense of smell isn’t much of a gift right now.

“What are you going to sacrifice for the ritual?” Heather sleepily mumbles. Stiles rolls his eyes, wishing he were unconscious. Lately, that’s been the best part of his days.

While the physical and mental torture are hell, the boredom might be worse. It hadn’t taken long for Stiles to catch her up on everything she’d missed in her absence. Everything. Both good and bad. He’d thought they’d run out of topics to discuss by now, but apparently not.

“I might offer my fingernail,” she continues, despite the lack of response.

Scott stops fiddling with his handcuffs to silently side-eye her. He’s been unusually taciturn, his gloomy demeanor rivaling that of Derek’s. Not that Stiles can blame him. He’d be devastated too if the love of his life kidnapped him and handed him over to be tortured and ritually sacrificed.

“My shoelace,” Stiles says, playing along. It’s not like he has anything better to do. “I don’t exactly have much on me. I left my purse at home.”

“If we’re including non-tangible things, you could sacrifice your terrible sense of humor,” Heather suggests.

“Can’t sacrifice that. I need it.”

“For what?”

“Wooing Derek.”

“I can guarantee you, your humor is not why Derek likes you.”

“True. He likes me for my mouth.”

“Gross.”

“I was talking about kissing.”

“Sure you were.”

Scott’s handcuffs clang obnoxiously, drawing their attention.

Stiles pushes down his rising annoyance and asks, “What are you doing?”

“In training they said we could break our thumb to squeeze out of handcuffs. Thought I’d try it.” Scott shrugs half-heartedly. “It looked a lot easier in the videos.”

Heather straightens. “Tried that already. You know what I got out of that? Two broken thumbs.”

She raises her hands. Her thumbs are as purple and swollen as they had been when Stiles and Scott first arrived. At the time, he’d assumed they were broken during a torture session. Apparently he’d assumed wrong.

“Why didn’t you stop after the first one?” Scott asks, without an ounce of tact. Stiles groans internally.

Heather’s laugh is shrill. “Wow. Okay. That, coming from the village idiot— wow. That actually hurts my ego.”

“Don’t be a brat, Heather,” Stiles chides. This place is miserable enough without the addition of petty arguments.

“I’ve been caged and tortured for who knows how long, I’m bleeding out of my fucking vagina and these assholes can’t even spare tampons, and _I have two fucking broken thumbs!”_ she snarls, “I can be a brat if I want to.”

Stiles and Scott balk, neither of them willing to argue. It’s not like they have a leg to stand on. She made a solid argument.

  
o0o0o0o  


The downside of having so much free time is having time to _think_. Something Stiles has done a lot of since being captured.

He can hardly believe the Solstice had been only two and a half weeks before their last mission. Finding the sirens and Dawa, discovering how his mother had died, going on the mission where Laura and the other alphas had been found, and officially beginning his relationship with Derek—

It had all happened within an unbelievably short span of time.

Digging his palms into his eyes, Stiles releases a humiliated groan.

“What?” Heather blinks at him through a badly swollen black-eye. A parting gift from her most recent ‘chat’ with the Argents. Despite their depressing situation, she eyes him with interest. They’ve been talking a lot lately, about anything and everything, good and bad, interesting and mundane— desperately clinging to some sense of normalcy.

Of sanity.

And there’s nothing witches love more than good gossip.

“I told Derek I loved him after only dating for two weeks,” Stiles bemoans. Heather’s lips quirk and she winces regretfully as it pulls at her split lip.

“I’d say your priorities seriously concern me, except this is the most interesting piece of news I’ve heard today. Please continue,” she says.

“When did that happen?” Scott asks, participating in the discussion despite his still-glum attitude. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

“The first time was when we were locked in a room.”

Heather shuffles closer, wordlessly begging for more details. Of course she found his relationship drama enthralling.

“First time?” Scott prompts.

“Locked in a room?” Heather inquires.

“I don’t want to talk about the second time,” Stiles grumbles.

“Was it after sex? I bet it was after sex. Was it good?” Heather asks.

“Heather!”

“What? You can’t blame me for asking. He’s hot like the sun. I have _eyes,_ ” she defends. “Let me live vicariously through you.”

Stiles shakes his head sullenly. “I’m such an idiot. I must’ve seemed desperate, confessing my love twice in two weeks.”

That dampens her enthusiasm.

“He didn’t say it back?” she asks gently.

Stiles deflates. He shouldn’t have brought it up, the memories only depress him further.

“Okay, don’t panic. You’ve known him for nine years. None of what’s between you two has been fast. He may not have said it back, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“Scott? What do you think?”

“Why are you asking him?” Heather quips. “I don’t think he’s in a place to be giving relationship advice, do you?” It’s a brutal jab and Scott’s expression closes off.

This definitely won’t help put an end to his endless wallowing in Scott’s Corner of Sorrow™ .

“Think of it this way— at least he didn’t lie and tell you he loved you before handing you over to hunters,” she continues acidly.

“She didn’t lie,” Scott snaps.

“Oh?” She gestures at their surroundings. “This look like love to you?”

“She didn’t know. But she’s going to figure it out. She’s going to save us. You’ll see.”

Stiles bites his tongue. He wanted to be mad at Scott for not hating Allison, but he can’t. Not when he can’t find it in himself to hate her either. Part of him is pissed and wants to hurt her, but it’s not easy to forget the good times they’d had. And there were many.

So, so many. They had laughed and they had argued, and she was almost as much of a sister to him as Heather was. Years ago, Stiles and Allison had bonded when they’d been brought together over their mutual love for Scott. He’d never imagined that that same love would be what tore them apart too.

While he can’t hate Allison— not now, not yet— he’s not foolish enough to believe she’s coming to their rescue. If Allison hadn’t figured it out or saved them by now, she never would. She’s too far gone.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell Scott that though.

Heather, however, isn’t as understanding and echoes of her mocking laughter bounce off their prison walls. It’s astounding that, between the two of them, Stiles is the one with better social skills. But Heather had been cruelly rejected by her bio-mom, who chose to keep a deadbeat live-in boyfriend over her own nine-year-old daughter, so he might cut her some slack for lacking social graces.  


o0o0o0o  


Stiles’ teeth chatter. He doesn’t have the energy to sit up, so he sags against the stone and lets his eyes slip shut.

It’s cold.

The kind of cold that seeps into bones and doesn’t leave. That cuts to the core, leaving ice in its wake, and sits under the skin long after the air has warmed.

But the air is never warm here and the frigid temperature never eases. Or maybe that’s how it feels to be eternally locked within an iron chamber, cut off from his magic and hollowed from the inside out.

His body aches with pains sharp and dull, head pounding and mouth parched from dehydration. He’s never been cut off for this long, nor has he ever been this freezing. Will he ever be warm again?

What had Derek’s touch felt like? Had his hands on Stiles’ skin felt like hot coals or a tingling warmth? How had Laura’s hugs made him feel? Giddy with hope and comfort, or hot in the cheeks at the sensation of being loved?

He’s beginning to forget, and that scares him more than anything Kate can do to him. He clings desperately to the last remnants of hope he has, frayed and thin though they may be. His hope has been receding every day, like the ocean pulling away from the shore. But, unlike the predictability of the tides, what’s left hasn’t come back. And he’s not sure it’s going to.

It’s near impossible to envision a happy future after this. After what he’s seen and experienced.

The others had been right to call this a place of nightmares, but they were also wrong. Those words weren’t strong enough.

  
o0o0o0o  


“Can you send Walmart to lead Derek and the others here?” Scott asks one night. There’s a deadened quality to his voice, hinting that his seemingly endless faith in Allison might not be so endless after all.

Stiles shakes his head and grimaces when Scott’s expression falls. “He can’t leave me. Well, he _can_ , but he can’t get far. Not when he's so low on energy. Maybe two miles, at most.”

“That’s something though. Two miles. Maybe he can—”

“He’s cut off from my magic. He only has so much energy and it’s not much. Next time they shoot him, he won’t come back. He needs to stay hidden. _I_ need him to stay hidden.”

“But if we don’t make it out of here by Halloween, we’re good as dead anyway, right?”

Stiles falters, unable to refute that. By hiding Walmart, he’s keeping him safe. Saving his energy. But for what? What use is that, if they don’t have a plan?

Perhaps it’s worth the risk.

Stiles’ eyes close tightly and he focuses on summoning his familiar.

Confirming that their situation is indeed as bleak as it seems, Walmart obediently appears without a fuss.

Stiles doesn’t know how much English Walmart truly understands, if any at all, but it’s worth a shot. He’s a smart bird. Even if he can’t understand the words, perhaps he could understand the meaning behind them.

Help us. Save us. Get us out of here.

“Hey, Walgreens. Think you could find us a key?”

“Does he actually understand English?” Scott asks.

“I like to think so,” Stiles replies, his gaze unwavering from Walmart’s as he gestures towards the heavy-set door behind them. “A key. Specifically, one for that door, so we can escape. Is that do-able? Can you do that for us?”

Without so much as a blink, Walmart flaps his wings and soars out through the window.

The silent shock of the room is broken by Scott’s dubious, “Was that a ‘yes’ or…?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles truthfully admits.

He hopes it was. Walmart is their last hope and he doesn’t want to find out what will happen if he doesn’t return with a key.

 

The three of them are dead asleep when an unusual scratching sound pulls them from their slumber. At first, Stiles’ blood curdles with the thought that the hunters had come to take away their only reprieve from this constant hell, but then he locates the source of the noise and relief floods through him. Walmart flaps his wings wildly as he tugs a fabric pouch stuffed with small, yet heavy objects along the floor. It must’ve been difficult for him to bring it here, now that he’s stuck in this form, only able to lift a certain percentage of his own weight without the aid of magic.

“Good boy, Walmart. Holy shit, you amazing bird you. I knew you could do it!” Stiles praises, unabashedly lying through his teeth. He hadn’t had much faith at all and this is the best surprise he could’ve ever woken up to.

“What is it?” Heather groggily asks, struggling to stay awake after her recent visit with Gerard. Getting beaten to a pulp was exhausting.

“Remember how I asked him to bring us a key?”

“Wait, seriously? It worked?” Scott shuffles over to his side with happy disbelief.

Their excitement evaporates the moment Stiles opens the bag and the contents spill out onto the ground. It’s not a key, nor a set of them. They’re a handful of old nails, their appearance promising tetanus if anyone so much as looks at them wrong.

How was this supposed to help them?!

Scott’s the one to break the disappointed silence.

“I don’t think Walmart understands English.”

“Don’t say that. He might understand some. We don’t know what he knows,” Heather defends. “He’s clearly smart and he knew we wanted his help. Maybe he only understands intent?”

Walmart’s head tilts as he watches them expectantly, like he’s waiting for further acknowledgement of his gifts. It doesn’t come.

Focusing on Heather’s words, Stiles sweeps the nails aside and declares, “Plan B. Find the dustiest corner in here. I’m going to draw him a picture.”

He’ll draw a key and focus on intent. They want a _specific_ looking- _item_ , to help them escape.

It’ll work this time. It has to.

  
o0o0o0o  


“Wake up, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment zings through Stiles’ chest, only to be instantly followed by resounding disappointment as he blearily opens his eyes to familiar faces. Kate stands in front of him, peering down with her trademark cold smile. Gerard, her father and geriatric leader of this psycho revenge campaign, leans against a far wall, content to watch his daughter work.

Stiles hates that word coming from her mouth, as if she has any right to call him that. It doesn’t sound right the way she says it, cruelly and without the affection Claudia had always spoken it with.

“Don’t call me that,” he slurs as he struggles against his restraints. It’s no use and he sways futilely against—

Damnit.

His consciousness sharpens as the tell-tale clinking of of metal registers. They fucking tied him up against the electric fence _again_.

He _despises_ the electric fence.

Then again, it’s better than the many times Kate’s made him hallucinate Derek— his torn up body, skin and organs ripped to shreds as he’s thrown into the cell with them like he’s nothing more than trash.

No, this doesn’t compare at all to that heartache. That _fear_.

In retrospect, perhaps the electric fence isn’t so bad. Not that he’ll ever admit as much to the Argents.

“Not this shit again.” His head lolls forward on a hefty sigh. And— yep. He’s shirtless again too. Great. He really doesn’t have the energy for this bullshit.

His arms are raised above his head, tied securely to the wire fencing with iron cuffs. They tingle with the sensation of pins and needles, though he’s not sure if that’s a side effect from being mildly electrocuted or if they are going numb from the uncomfortable position. Possibly both.

The only blessing is that his tattoos— his magic— is smarter than the hunters. They didn’t stop working the moment they came into contact with iron. They used up every last spark of magic they had to offer one final layer of protection to his body, before the tie between him and his magic was severed.

The result is not an attractive sight, but it’s a practical one. The large inky blots had banded together like a small army with their edges bleeding outwards like a stain, until every inch of his skin, from his neck to his wrists and ankles, was covered in solid black. It’s a thin barrier of protection in the uppermost layer of his skin, but he’s grateful nonetheless. Grateful and, honestly, mildly impressed they’ve held up against repeated bouts of unconsciousness and torture.

That said, it’s not impossible to injure him like this; only more difficult. And it didn’t take long for the hunters to figure that out. Now, when they aren’t psychologically torturing him, they are slicing into his vulnerable hands and feet, or wracking his entire body with painful jolts of electricity.

He has no defense against those attacks.

Kate tsks disappointedly. “But we had so much fun last time.”

“I think we should discuss your definition of the word ‘fun’. Speaking of which, I’ve heard about your new hobby of experimenting and shit. I have to be honest, I think your talents lie elsewhere.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Gerard refutes with a proud glint in his eye. “I think Kate here has quite the gift of _influence_.”

“Holy shit, that was so lame,” Stiles mumbles, yelping when a fist slams into his nose with a nasty _crack!_ Fuck, the old man packed a punch. Blood pours down the back of his throat and his throat spasms, forcing him to cough it up and spit red onto the floor, though the bitter taste of iron on his tongue remains.

“My daughter is far more talented and pure than you’ll ever be. While you’re rotting underground, we’ll be cleansing the earth, wiping out all the impurities and starting anew.”

Stiles gapes silently. Is he serious? Is all _this_ over some religious bullshit?

“And by cleansing the earth, you mean…”

“Ridding the world of the diseased like you and your friends,” Gerard answers. Stiles nods like it makes total sense.

“Right, right. Of course. With the mind-controlled werewolf army. Gotcha. But what about her?” he asks, jutting his chin out at Kate. “She’s like me. Isn’t she diseased too?”

Kate sneers as if the notion of comparing them was beyond insulting. “I’m _nothing_ like you.”

“Kate is the exception. She is the chosen one. Through her compliance, she is forgiven. She is pure.”

“Funny. ‘Pure’ isn’t the word I would’ve chosen. You know how sulphur gets in your veins, don’t you? So who was it? Who in the family _fucked_ a demon? Mommy or Dad—”

Stiles’ piercing scream echoes in the room as Kate thrusts her hands into his abdomen and tears his stomach apart with her bare fingers. The pain is so bad that he quickly goes numb, his body cold and clammy from shock. He twitches, gasps, and gurgles when she pulls away, making a disgusted face as blood pours from his mouth.

He’s still shaking and sweating when the vision ends. He stares down at his black, unblemished torso with wild eyes, unsure if what he’s seeing is real. The excruciating pain when she’d ripped into him had felt so vivid. So real.

Her visions always did.

It made it impossible to get used to, since any moment could be fake. He never knew something wasn’t real until the vision ended. Even after, the thought still lingers. What if he’s dying right now— and this room, this wire fence, the hunters in front of him— are fake?

What if this isn’t reality?

The door behind him ominously clicks shut, startling him back into the present. The sound of approaching footsteps announce the presence of another, but no one ever joined their sessions. It was only ever Kate and Gerard. Unless, could it be—

Allison…?

He tries to turn and look, but doesn’t have the energy for it. He’s tired and drenched in sweat. How long have they kept him like this?

“I think you’ve discussed things enough. You’re quite a talker, aren’t you? Just jabbering on and on, never saying much.” The newcomer’s voice vaguely rings a bell and, though he can’t place it, it’s enough to know it’s not Allison.

The speaker steps out from the peripheral shadows, revealing dark skin, curly hair, and the standard hunter-style clothing.

“You look familiar,” Stiles says tiredly.

“I should hope so. You made a rather lasting impression on me. I’d be disappointed if that didn’t go both ways.”

It takes an embarrassingly long moment to recognize her, despite _knowing_ he’s met her before. But he’s been tortured for a while, so a sluggish memory is at the bottom of his list of problems.

“You were at the snow massacre.” His memory of that event is hazy at best, but some parts he recalls rather clearly. Like the way she had called out to them to hand over the ‘kelpie’ they’d captured. “Huh. And here I spent all this time thinking I’d slaughtered every last one of you out on that field.”

It’s easy to fake bravado when he doesn’t have enough energy to filter what comes out of his mouth. But it’s partially true. He thought no hunters survived that battle, though he had been too out of his mind with bloodthirst at the time to notice any escapees.

“I didn’t happen to catch your name though.”

“You can call me Monroe,” she says flatly.

His initial assessment of her, that she was one of their leaders, must’ve been right. She wouldn’t be in this room with them if she weren’t someone important. Is this all of them then? All of the hunter organization’s top leaders, gracing him with their presence? They sure know how to make a prisoner feel special.

“I have to ask… Are you a long lost Argent cousin or something? Because, I’ve gotta say, you guys don’t really look relate—” a raw cry is torn from his throat as the flip is switched and the voltage is turned on. He sags the moment the electricity stops flowing through him and gasps for air through a desert-dry mouth. The hairs on his arms stand at attention while sweat trickles down his forehead.

“You know what we want. Tell us and this ends now. No more shocking, no more beatings, nothing,” Monroe says, like he could possibly believe a word they say.

“Hmm? Sorry. Brain’s a little foggy at the moment. Electroshock’ll do that to you,” he mumbles.

“Tell us where your talisman is.”

He hesitates, debating on whether or not it’s worth sassing them. He settles on ‘yes’. He’s going to get roasted either way, so he might as well entertain himself.

“Talisman?” He furrows his brow, feigning confusion. “Like those things in Jackie Chan Adventures?”

That had been one of his favorite shows to watch as a kid, though he hadn’t been able to watch it often. Heather preferred to watch Digimon instead, because she liked all the cute creatures in it. And, since she could easily replicate a working remote control whenever she wanted to, she usually got her way. Nostalgia washes over him and the memory grounds him, slowing his heart rate and easing the tightness in his chest.

Unlike before, he expects the shock this time, but it doesn’t make it any more tolerable.

Kate’s lip curls in distaste. “Where. Is. Your. Talisman?”

“Dunno what that is.”

“I may be pretty, but I’m not a fool, sweetheart. I’ve searched every inch of you, your sister, and your mutt. There’s no ring, no article of clothing, nor spec of dirt I’ve missed. But I know you have it. It’s here somewhere. It has to be. No witch would leave it behind. Where. Is. It?”

Dazed laughter bubbles up inside him and escapes before he can stop it. The look on Kate’s face is deadly, but his laughter only subsides when he sees Gerard reach for the switch. Kate turns her wicked look on her father, halting his hand. With narrow, calculated eyes, she approaches Stiles, leaving barely enough space for the tension-thick air between them.

“Care to share with the class what’s so funny?”

Stiles’ eyes rove over Gerard and Monroe’s unamused expressions before he settles back on Kate.

“Where’s yours?”

“Where’s my what?” she snaps.

“Your talisman.” A crooked grin pulls at his lips. It’s evident he’s hit a sore spot when she steps back and reevaluates him.

“Excuse me?”

“I saw your eyes, I know you have a familiar.” The kanima, maybe? “But you seem to have in-depth knowledge of talismans, and information like that is rarely taught outside coven lessons. Which, being a hunter’s daughter, I doubt you had. Ergo, you gained that knowledge through experience. Most likely your own. So where is it?” he says, echoing her own words back at her.

Although Kate’s face is carefully blank, void of all emotion, it’s obvious she’s furious. Normally, she’s the human version of the Cheshire Cat with her wicked smiles. Not anymore. He’s caught her off guard.

“Like you said, no witch would leave theirs behind. It’s in this building, isn’t it?” Stiles says, his sharp grin widening as her jaw ticks. How quickly their roles have reversed. “Is it here with you now?” At her silence, he tsks. “You sure that’s a good idea? Seems pretty foolish to me.”

It could be an object in this room, or even something she’s wearing. She wears a lot of jewelry, including large rings on multiple fingers, tiny silver arrow-shaped earrings in her ears, and occasionally he spots a glint of a silver chain around her neck.

What kind of hunter— with the last name _Argent_ , no less— wears _silver_ jewelry? It’s beyond tacky.

And that’s just what he can see. Who knows what might be hiding underneath her clothes, in her hair, or in her pockets.

Like his own familiar, the talisman might be less obvious. Like her black combat boots she always wears, her silver belt, or a tattoo hidden on her body.

It could be _anything_. Any of the countless items in this room.

“Shock him,” Kate demands.

It hurts as much as the first time, if not more, now that his body is exhausted and left trembling, long after the shocks have ended.

After he’s rendered silent, Kate advances forward snarling, “I’m going to find your talisman and I’m going to _burn_ it, and you, excruciatingly slowly. We’ll finally know how long a witch can survive without their familiar.”

That’s clearly meant to be her final words, because she hastily swivels around and strides towards the door, but Stiles can’t help but wonder—

“Why do you need it?”

She doesn’t need it to kill him. He’s as easy to kill as a regular human, and killing him would mean the end of his familiar. The talisman isn’t necessary to complete her ritual, so… why? Why go through all this trouble?

When she answers with chilling calm, he wishes he’d never asked.

“Because I’ve never seen one die before.”

 

o0o0o0o 

 

“She knows.”

Stiles had kept the secret to himself for as long as he could, not wanting to tell Heather, or have her worry over him more than she already does. But she needs to know, so she won’t be blindsided if the worst happens.

Heather halts her pacing— her daily form of exercise— but doesn’t otherwise react. After a beat, she resumes walking, but there’s a sour twist to her mouth that hadn’t been there prior.

“It’s only a matter of time before she figures it out. It’s pure luck she hasn’t yet,” he says.

He’s scared. Terrified, actually, at the prospect of losing Walmart.

Scott’s eyes bounce between them, like he thinks he can decode their conversation if he stares hard enough.

“Even if she figures it out, she won’t act on it. She won’t kill you— or Walmart— until Samhain. We’re safe until then.” Stiles laughs raggedly and Heather grimaces at her poor word choice. “You know what I mean. We’ll be kept alive until then. We have time.”

How much time? Days? Hours?

“Wait, they can kill Walmart?” Scott gasps, finally catching on. “I thought he was invincible?”

His gaze falls on the bird in the corner watching them solemnly. Stiles swallows and, for the first time, tastes the truth on his tongue.

“That’s not my familiar.”

“What?”

“Remember how I said Walmart wasn’t ‘made right’?” Because Stiles had made him by accident, during the worst melt-down he’d ever had as a child. When he’d wanted nothing more than to die and his magic had twisted, forming a familiar as unstable as himself.

Off Scott’s bewildered nod, Stiles continues, “Well, that might be why he’s morbid as fuck, but it’s not why he can shapeshift or become incorporeal. He’s a familiar, but he’s an unusual _type_. One that’s less common than most.”

“Uh, okay?”

Stiles blows out a breath. There’s no reason to beat around the bush. Scott’s not going to understand unless Stiles spells it out for him, letter by letter.

Here it goes.

“That’s not Walmart. Not really. Not _technically_.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s an agathion,” Heather answers for him. She waves a dismissive hand towards the bird in the corner. “Nothing more than magical projection. A fake. An illusion. This sinking in yet or should I keep listing synonyms?”

“No, I get that.” Scott’s head tilts, an adorably puppy-like gesture belying his confusion. “But, if he’s not your familiar, then who is?”

“Most familiars are magical spirits, sprites, and assistants in corporeal form. Agathions are almost the same, but they’re sealed away inside talismans. They can project themselves outside of their talisman, but those are just illusions. Magic. They aren’t _real,_ ” Heather explains.

Aside from their mother, she’s the only one who knows the truth about his familiar. The only person at the agency who knew agathions existed, though it’s common knowledge among most witches.

Which explains how Kate had seemed to know what Walmart was from the start. It’s because she knew about agathions, having had her own.

“So Walmart’s basically a ghost,” Scott says slowly.

“Kind of. More like an impish spirit. He is a demon, after all,” Stiles corrects.

“You don’t get sealed inside talismans unless you have behavioral problems,” Heather says.

Scott frowns. “If that’s a projection of him, then where is he? Bound to some talisman thing?”

Heather’s head seesaws. “Most agathions are sealed within bottles, pots, rings— physical objects like that. But Walmart likes to be different, you know.”

Scott snorts and Stiles smiles wryly. ‘Different’ is putting it mildly.

“You remember the detailed crow tattoo on my bicep?” Stiles begins.

“The creepy one with the weird eyes that are always staring directly at me?”

“Yeah. That’s him.”

The unmoving, yet perfectly-lifelike rendition of a crow that never moved from that place on his body. Not since the day he first appeared, when Stiles was ten years old.

That was the _real_ Walmart, his familiar’s true body, and talisman. Not a ring or bottle, but a tattoo.

“Huh,” Scott says, at a loss for words. He eyes the small cluster of holes in the sleeve of Stiles’ shirt. “But isn’t your whole body, like… black now? If he’s the bicep tattoo, then where did he go?”

“He’s there, but he’s in hiding. Basically ‘Birdie Witness Protection’.”

He’ll never stop being thankful that his magic had reacted quickly and blanketed his body with black ink to keep the familiar hidden from Kate. It was ugly, but it was effective.

Expression blank with shock, Scott doesn’t appear to know what to do with this newfound information. Which is understandable. It’s a lot to take in.

“Why are you telling me this?”

It’s a fair question and the answer’s embarrassingly simple.

“Honestly?” Stiles snorts, mouth bursting wide with an unstoppable grin. “I’ve been _dying_ to tell someone lately. Get it? _Literally_ dying to tell someone… because of all the torture.”

It’s a terrible joke, but, as always, humor is how he survives. How he’s always survived. The Argents will have to pry his shitty jokes from his cold, dead hands.

The two identical groans he receives are absolutely worth it.

“That’s not funny,” Scott says.

“It’s a little funny,” Stiles refutes.

“It’s really not,” Heather says, even as a reluctant smile forms on her face, unable to be held back.

Yeah, it was absolutely worth it. They may not know how much time they have left, so every smile, every chuckle, every snort— they are to be cherished.

It’s nice to see his friends smile again, especially if it may be for the last time.

 

The next morning, Stiles and Heather share a commiserating look. It’s Samhain. He can’t explain how he knows; it’s like a sensation in the pit of his stomach and a hint of magic in the air that tips him off. Heather feels it too and she rises with stilted movements, a graveness to her eyes and tense lines around her mouth.

“What,” Scott says, picking up on the tension.

“It’s tonight,” Stiles says.

“Tonight?! But we don’t have a plan yet. Do we?”

“We don’t have a plan,” Heather confirms grimly.

Stiles frowns at the empty window and the hint of blue sky behind it. “The plan was for Walmart to bring us a key, but…”

…but it’s been a while since they’d seen him last. Maybe he’d given up? Or perhaps he hadn’t understood their request to begin with.

“What do we do,” Heather softly asks.

 _Scratch_ , _scratch_.

The three of them jump and instinctively crowd together, staring at the door with dread as someone scratches on the other side. A strange, inhuman shadow sways at the bottom of the doorway, and Stiles glares at it before realizing it’s not a human shadow. It’s a small, black body with twiggy legs.

Walmart. Showing up at the last second, as if he’d heard them talking shit about him.

There’s something in his beak and he futilely tries to shove it under the door.

“What are you doing,” Stiles mumbles in exasperation as he goes to assist. He drops down and picks at the metal object with a finger, helping twist and tug it underneath while Walmart pecks and kicks at it.

The object pops free and Stiles grabs it with a happy cry as Walmart caws and flutters away once more.

Happiness ebbs as the object’s shape comes into focus.

It’s still not a key.

“What is it?” Scott asks.

“Not a key,” Heather grumbles, soured by the same realization as Stiles.

Walmart, their last remaining hope, had failed them.

“What am I supposed to do with this, you asshole?!” Stiles yells after his familiar, despite knowing he’s long gone. His fingers clench around the cool metal and he fights against the urge to scream, to throw the object or _smash_ it into a thousand pieces. It’s difficult not to let his frustration get the better of him.

He’d had so much hope that Walmart wouldn’t let him down, that he’d somehow save the day.

He should’ve known better.

Instead of a key, his familiar had brought him a hideous pendant. It’s silver and vaguely moon-shaped, with a ridiculous-looking werewolf in the middle, its muzzle curled up on a snarl. Bulky, heavy, and ugly as hell.

Stiles mindlessly brushes his thumb over it.

A bag of rusty nails, and now this. Maybe Scott was right and Walmart didn’t understand them after all. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as they’d thought.

Heather snatches the pendant and inspects it with pursed lips. “I guess Walmart thinks we could use some jewelry. Lucky us. We get to dress up for our last moments. How thoughtful.”

“What is it though?” Scott asks, leaning forward for a better look. “Is that supposed to be a wolf?”

“Werewolf,” Heather corrects, “and it’s a pendant. For a necklace.”

“Oh.”

“You’re the only werewolf among us. You should have the honor of wearing it,” Heather says with a cheeky grin.

Scott’s nose scrunches. “No way I’m wearing that thing. It’s tacky as hell!”

Heather and Stiles laugh, though Stiles’ chuckles quickly fade away, quieting as his thoughts become focused.

Scott’s right.

It’s _tacky_ as hell.

Tacky… like something Kate Argent would wear.

Stiles lurches forward and swipes the pendant out of Heather’s grasp, ignoring her cry of protest.

It’s tacky and it’s silver. The two types of jewelry Kate _loves_ to wear. He’d noticed a glint of a necklace around her neck, but only the chain. The rest of it had always been hidden under her shirts.

Could this be it?

If it is— why would Walmart bring them a piece of her jewelry? Did it have something to do with the nails? Or were they not related at all?

It’s their last day here; Walmart must be able to sense their desperation, even if he doesn’t fully understand it. He’d try to help them, wouldn’t he? He always has. In some way, the nails and pendant are meant to help them.

They have to be.

And Walmart is more clever than people know. Despite earlier doubts, he knows that to be true. Walmart is incredibly intelligent. What if he knows that this pendant, this specific piece of jewelry, is important to Kate?

Important enough to her that it might help them escape.

The only thing that important, that valuable, to a witch would be…

Stiles swallows thickly, his fingers tightening around the pendant. Does he dare hope…?

“What?” Heather cautiously asks, picking up on his change in demeanor.

“I think—” his voice breaks with emotion, “I think this is her talisman.”

Heather’s face pales with shock. “No fucking way.”

“Wait, what?” Scott blurts. “Kate has a talisman? Since when?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure she does. And that this is it. Guys… this could save us.”

“What if that isn’t her talisman?” Scott asks.

“What if it is? What if Walmart understood us?”

“He brought us nails when we asked for a key,” Scott points out. Since when is he the rational one of the group?

“We asked him for a key and he gave us one, just not the one we were asking for. This could be how we escape!”

“And the nails?”

“They must be for a reason too,” Stiles says, remaining steadfast in his belief. He’s done doubting Walmart.

Heather and Scott both share a quiet glance.

“You really think he’s trying to save us?” Heather asks.

“I trust him.” And it’s true. He does.

He trusts Walmart. What goes on in his head may be a mystery, but his intentions aren’t. He’s always tried to help, even if in strange ways. This situation is no different.

Heather’s eyes sharpen with determination. “Then we do too.”

“So, what do we do with it? How can we use this to escape?” Scott asks, and that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?

How could they use it, other than to destroy it? If they tried to blackmail Kate into letting them out, they wouldn’t make it through the hunter compound before being apprehended. There are hundreds of cameras and hundreds more lackeys.

If they destroy it, the loss of her familiar would incapacitate Kate, possibly kill her, which would give them their chance.

But that still doesn’t answer how they’d escape the hunter compound that way either. They’d have to be extra sneaky to make it out, but most likely they’d end up getting caught. So they’d have to stay in the room and—

and what?

Finish the ritual? Beg the Universe to save them?

The fact that tonight is Samhain might actually work in their favor.

“We’ll destroy it. We’ll ask the Universe for blessings. To help us escape,” Stiles declares as the details solidify in his mind. They could do this. If they do it right.

Heather’s expression darkens. “We need three witches for that.”

“We have three witches.”

Heather exhales sharply, like he’s being willfully ignorant. He might be. “We only have three witches if she goes first and we kill her _after_ she makes her sacrifice.”

“Okay, so we do that then,” Scott says, not understanding the issue.

“She’s going to kill _us_ after we make our sacrifices, you idiot. There’s no way she won’t. Once we make our offerings, she’ll no longer have any use for us. Our part in the ritual will be over,” Heather grinds out. “You think she’s dumb enough to make her sacrifice first? Because I don’t.”

“Is she dumb enough? No. But she might be arrogant enough to,” Stiles says.

Kate is cocky. She believes she’s the Universe’s gift to the Earth. He’s willing to bet everything that she’ll perform her sacrifice first, too sure of her abilities and plan.

Nothing leads to mistakes better than overconfidence.

“And if she doesn’t offer her sacrifice first?” Heather asks.

The possibility passes through his mind, and the result is disturbingly unpleasant. They’d have to rely on their sacrifices being strong enough, worthy enough, to catch the Universe’s attention without a third witch.

If that’s what it comes to… they’d be as good as dead either way.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

  
o0o0o0o

  
Nightfall comes before they are ready for it.

When Kate arrives with her lackeys, it’s with little fanfare. The door bangs open and she stands in the doorway, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she orders them to come with her.

Not that they have much of a choice. Their hands are chained and the large, burley hunters have an iron grip on them as they drag them to their new room.

This one is brighter; the artificial, yellow-tinted lights immediately causing Stiles’ temples to throb unpleasantly. A classic black cauldron sits in the middle of the floor, a pentagram painted around it.

Each of them follow directions and obediently stand at the points they’re told. They’re helplessly compliant, forced to play along if they want to survive. They can’t put up a fight. Not yet. But, if they wait, they may have a chance.

“We ask the Universe for blessings of success and power. In return, I offer you three willing sacrifices. By the will of the Universe, I make my plea. Transfer their magic into me,” Kate announces, making her intent clear from the start. She’s skipping the traditional incantation that’s recited before rituals, but that’s not surprising.

It’s not necessary to perform the spell, but it’s a part of witchcraft culture. She may not have learned about the cultural aspects if she’d never been taught by a coven. Which, considering she was born into a family of hunters, it’s likely she hadn’t been. If she learned about rituals through textbook readings only, her style will greatly differ from Claudia’s.

Unfortunately, the ritual still works just fine this way. All that matters is that the three core components are there: the expression of intent, sacrifices, and blood offerings.

It’s doubtful that Kate would be incompetent enough to forget any of those, but Stiles is a hopeful kind of guy.

“We offer up our blood in appreciation,” she declares, further solidifying their fate. Two core components down, only one remaining.

With a swift slice of her knife, blood pours from her wrist, dripping down her fingers and into the cauldron. A few drops is enough, and she hastily tugs bandages out of her pocket and wraps the wound tight. With an expectant look, she extends the weapon towards Heather.

“You next. And don’t get any cute ideas.”

Heather nods and goes to cut her forearm like she’s done a hundred times before. But her hands are shaking with fear and the knife is unfamiliar in her palm, and she hunches forward with a startled gasp when she accidentally cuts to deep. The knife clatters to the floor and she sobs, grabbing at the wound to stem the flow of blood.

“Stop wasting it, you idiot!” Kate barks, snatching her injured arm and holding it over the cauldron. Stiles bites his cheek, furious and barely able to hold himself back, but Heather’s staring back at him with wide, panicked eyes and shaking her head.

Not yet.

When Kate’s satisfied with the amount of blood given, her grip releases and Heather cries quietly. Her arm is clutched tightly to her chest and her face has gone pale. The cut probably hurt like a bitch, but it hadn’t appeared deep enough to cause concern. She won’t die from blood loss, at least.

Dying from being ritually sacrificed, however…

Snatching the discarded knife, Kate tosses it to a startled-looking Scott. As a werewolf, he hadn’t expected to be involved in the ritual, but it makes sense that Kate would ask him. The more sacrifices she has, the better. Witch or not.

And he’d make for great incentive, if Stiles were uncooperative.

At Stiles’ nod, Scott’s lips purse sourly, but he obediently cuts into his palm and makes his offering.

The knife lands in Stiles’ hand after and he squeamishly turns away as the blood drip down his palm and into the cauldron. It burns when he tugs his sleeve down to press against the bleeding wound.

The first part is over.

Heather bristles and Scott’s hands tighten into fists at his sides, while Stiles’ uninjured hand taps anxiously against the bulge in his pocket. His eyes focus on the cauldron while his mind runs through the plan.

They were going to be fine. All they have to do is stick to the plan. Kate will go first and, once she’s finished with her sacrifice, they can—

“You first.”

Stiles’ heart plummets at Heather’s stricken expression and Kate’s practically radiating smugness. She isn’t a fool and they were childish to think she was.

“M-me?” Heather stutters. “But your sacrifice is most important. You—”

Kate’s hands shift to her lower back. A familiar click sounds and Stiles’ eyes briefly shut in defeat.

“You first, or I’ll put a bullet in him.”

Stiles’ eyes reopen, unsurprised to find a gun angled towards him.

“You’re going to kill us all anyway,” Heather says defiantly.

“Ah, yes, I’m going to. But it doesn’t have to be slow and agonizingly painful, does it? Would you rather he dies a quick and painless death by the end of this, or that he dies slowly, screaming, and with countless bullet holes? I can start with blowing his ear off. Maybe then you’ll get the hint and _listen_.”

“No! No, I’ll listen. I’ll go first.” Trembling, Heather gazes, lost, into the contents of the cauldron, frantically trying to come up with a way out of this.

There isn’t one. Kate _had_ to go first, otherwise they wouldn’t have three witches to complete the ritual, and their request for freedom would go unheard by the Universe, leaving them trapped in the building.

If they kill Kate now, they’ll be stuck in the hunter’s lair. Trapped and dead by morning, probably having been tortured to death by Gerard or Monroe.

Tears trickle down Heather’s cheeks as she offers her brother one last shaky, sad smile. It’s a goodbye, and that’s what steadies Stiles’ resolve.

There may not be a way out of this, but a decision still has to be made.

And Stiles is a hopeful guy.

“You have three seconds before I shoot. Do us all a favor. Make your sacrifice and save the dramatics, would you?”

Stiles’ fingers twitch, sneaking into his pocket and wrapping around the small object inside.

“Actually, I think I’ll go first,” he says and tosses the pendant into the pit. Silver shines in the moonlight and Kate recognizes it instantly, a horrifying screech erupting from her mouth as she dives for it. Scott jolts from his place at the pentagram and tackles her, the two of them smashing into the ground.

In the cauldron, blood bubbles around the talisman as it sinks beneath the surface to join the rest of the offerings. Shots ring out and Scott falls to his side, blood pouring from multiple bullet wounds along his stomach. Stiles’ body vibrates with the urge to move forward, to help his best friend, but he can’t. He can’t leave the pentagram. It would render their spell meaningless. Scott had moved, but he isn’t a witch. He isn’t bound to the rules like they are.

Their loss of Kate, however, is going to hurt their chances.

Beside Scott, Kate’s gun clatters to the ground, falling out of her limp grip seconds before her eyes roll back and she seizes. The glittering form of a transparent snake coils around her body, flickering in and out of existence.

Is this the fate of a witch who has lost their familiar? Is it going to kill her? Or would she survive this, unexpectedly bouncing back like a cockroach? Stiles doesn’t want to wait and see. They need to finish this ritual now, the best they can with the two of them.

“Oh my god,” Heather gasps through panicked, heaving breaths. “Oh my god. Scott. Fuck.”

“Is it going to kill her?” Scott croaks. “Is she dying?”

Helplessly, Stiles answers, “I don’t know.”

“Does it count as her sacrifice?”

Unfortunately, he knows that answer.

“No,” he says grimly. “She didn’t offer it willingly.”

Scott whimpers and Stiles jolts to comfort him, but goes rigid when Heather shouts for him to stay still.

He feels helpless and lost, unable to do _anything_ and it pisses him off! They are going to die in some crazy old geezer’s basement! How is any of this _fair?!_

“I’m okay,” Scott grits out, despite being the exact opposite of _okay_. He clutches his wounded abdomen and drags himself back to his spot at the pentagram. His blood splatters and smears along the outside of the chalk, but doesn’t interfere with the drawing itself, blocked by an invisible barrier.

Magic.

Whatever they’re going to do, they have to hurry. It’s highly doubtful Kate carried non-wolfsbane bullets and they need all the willing sacrifices they can get.

“They’re going to slaughter us for this. We ruined the ritual, possibly even killed their leader. We’re fucked! There’s no way out of here,” Heather cries. “What do we do? What do we do now?”

With more confidence than he feels, Stiles says, “We still have a chance.”

“No, we don’t! In case you missed it, we just lost our third witch! Scott’s sacrifice probably won’t even be noticed by the Universe because he isn’t one of us. Our ritual is going to _fail_ , just like it did at Solstice, and failure means death!”

“We still have a chance,” Stiles reiterates, more firmly this time. “As long as our sacrifices are strong enough, we have a chance. We can do this. We can make it out of here. Isn’t it worth a try?”

“I don’t want to risk sacrificing something I love for nothing!”

“It’s that or we all _die_ and lose everything anyway— for nothing!”

Heather goes silent, her shoulders quaking, but he knows he’s gotten through to her.

Time for Plan B.

“I’ll go. I’ll make the first sacrifice,” Scott volunteers, shocking the witches into silence. “I may not be conscious much longer. Tell me what I have to do.”

Recognizing there’s not enough time for the cultural aspects, Stiles skips the incantation and amends their initial request.

“We ask the Universe for blessings of protection and freedom. Please. Set us free, help us escape, let us live, and allow us to continue to serve you.”

He offers Scott a tight smile.

Scott does a good job of following instructions despite his clammy, sickly appearance and the fearful tremors behind his words. In spite of everything, his eyes are determined as he announces his sacrifice.

“For these blessings, I sacrifice my love.”

Stiles sucks in a harsh breath, eyes brimming with tears as Scott pulls his most prized possession, Allison’s bracelet, from his pants pocket and holds it over the cauldron. Stiles hadn’t realized he’d kept it this whole time. A part of him must have still been desperately clutching onto the hope that Allison might realize her mistake, might come to save him. That their love really was strong enough to overcome any obstacle.

But it wasn’t.

He’s finally giving up.

“A tangible and intangible sacrifice.”

The bracelet slides from his fingertips and sinks into the bloody mixture.

“May your sacrifice be worth it,” Stiles and Heather utter in unison. Neither of them say anything as Scott lowers himself to the ground, too exhausted to remain standing.

It hurts to know that such a meaningful sacrifice may not mean anything to the Universe in the end. Magic only cares about magic, about the give and take of it. To create magic, one must give up some of their own. A werewolf has no magic to give, even when sacrificing a beloved object.

The cycle of magic is an uncaring one.

“Mom would’ve been proud of us.”

Tears finally fall free at Heather’s unexpected comment, trailing wetly down Stiles’ cheeks. He doesn’t bother hiding them. Not now.

“No, really. You know she loved big, dramatic scenes,” Heather says wetly, speaking through her own tears.

Stiles chuckles and his body loses some of its tension. There’s no rush now. These might be their last moments together. They should make them last.

“Look at us. The Gajos kids following in her witchy footsteps,” he says.

Heather smiles, but it’s wobbly and unstable. “Her shoes were too big to fill.”

“I think we did a pretty decent job. A solid five out of ten, at least.”

Heather laughs, though it’s brief and shifts into choked sobs. “I can’t believe she’s never coming back. I knew it in my heart, but I’ve always hoped—”

“I know.” He hated telling her about the file and what he’d discovered about Claudia’s death. How she’d been betrayed by both Peter and Natalie, and was left in the woods to rot like an animal.

Heather breaks down, her hands hiding her face from view. Desperately, he wishes he could hold her. To console his sister. But he can’t. At least not physically.

“She’ll always be with us in our memories and in our hearts. She’s alive within us, and that’s okay. We can write books about her in purgatory.”

Heather wipes at her face and visibly steels herself.

“I’m sorry you had to find out about her without me.”

Stiles shrugs. There was nothing to be sorry for.

“I wasn’t that surprised. I knew it too, deep down. I just didn’t want to accept that she was dead, because she never gave up on us. And to accept that she was gone felt like we were giving up on her.”

“It’s not giving up on her. It’s letting her go, so we can be happy. Like she wanted for us.”

If only things had ended that way, instead of like this.

With that, Heather takes a steadying breath and reaches to the back of her neck. There’s a glint of something shiny.

Claudia’s moon necklace.

“For these blessings, I offer a tangible and intangible sacrifice. By giving my mother’s necklace to the Universe, I am letting her go,” she announces. “Claudia Gajos, may your spirit rest in peace.”

With finality, the necklace slips into the darkness of the pit.

Devastation is etched in the tense lines on Heather’s face, but her eyes are bright with resolution. She’s doing this, not just for them, but for herself too. It’s too difficult to move forward when looking backwards.

It’s Stiles’ turn to do the same, to sever his own tie to Claudia and move forward.

“May your sacrifice be worth it,” he murmurs. Scott remains eerily silent, his hand limp and head dipped low. Blood pools around him and Stiles turns away to keep himself from throwing up.

They really weren’t making it out of here alive, were they? Not unless a miracle happens.

Even if they did manage to survive, what would that mean for them? What happens after this?

His whole body is heavy and sluggish, and time suddenly feels oh. so. slow.

He tries to remain hopeful that this might work out. Somehow, someway.

After all, magic begets magic.

If they create enough magic to catch the Universe’s notice, they might survive.

Supposedly, Samhain is when the veil between this world and afterlife is thinnest. With the two of them here, practicing their magic without holding anything back, it feels like…

It feels like Claudia is here with them, watching them and sharing in their sorrow. He smells her perfume in the air. Feels the warmth of her beside him.

Was she smiling? Did she approve of how her beloved children have turned out?

Was she waiting for them?

“Let us remember her.”

“Forever and always.”

Together, they offer shaky grins and declare, “ _Coven over everything_.”

Moonlight hits the cauldron, illuminating it hauntingly. It’s time.

He’s not ready for this, but he never could be. How could anyone be ready for something like this?

His only hope is that it’s enough. That what they’ve sacrificed— _everything they have_ — is deemed worthy.

The words are thick in his mouth, and for a moment he’s terrified he won’t be able to get the words out, but then a shadow flickers over the offerings and Stiles glances up.

Walmart stares down at him from his perch on the windowsill. Stiles drinks in every detail of him, as much as he can in the darkness of the night.

Once more, his fingers slip into his pants pocket. He’d come prepared, though he’d desperately wished it wouldn’t come down to this.

His lips come unglued and the words tumble out of him.

“I, Stiles Gajos, sacrifice my magic.”

“No!”

Heather screams as he jams the nail into his bicep where his talisman rests. The sharp metal pierces the skin easily and tears through muscle as he mercilessly drags it through the tattoo.

He’d thought he’d be numb to pain by now, but he was wrong. It’s far worse than it had been with the hunters. He’d rather be dead than feel this kind of agony.

It doesn’t feel like fire, like he’d anticipated. No. That would have been merciful.

His body is being torn apart, piece by piece, molecule by molecule, starting with his insides and working it’s way out.

But, with a glance down, he confirms that he’s still in one piece. Perhaps he’s not being ripped apart, but it feels like he is. It doesn’t make the situation any better.

Now that the ritual is essentially over, the last core component having been met, Heather’s rushing to his side and grabbing him like she’s terrified he’s about to disappear at any moment. She sobs loudly in his ears, causing them to ring. She appears gutted, but she’s not looking at him. He follows her gaze and it’s like the air is sucked from his lungs.

Walmart hovers in the air next to them, wings spread as if he were a butterfly pinned to a board.

Despite Heather’s hands tugging at him, Stiles shuffles closer, mesmerized.

He did this.

Stiles did this to him.

The least he can do is say goodbye.

“You did so good, lil buddy,” he whispers brokenly, running fingers through soft black feathers for the final time. “Thank you. For everything. And I— I’m so sorry. May your sacrifice be worth it.”

The moment his hand makes contact, an electric shock shudders through him. Images and scenes flash before his eyes, like he’s watching a movie in first person— but it’s more real than that. Without any explanation necessary, he knows these are thoughts and memories. Just not his own.

_Horrifying visions of shredded and malformed bodies. Screaming, loud and horrified in the background. Like hundreds— or thousands— of people crying out together._

Sensations flow alongside the flashes: _confusion, frustration, and pain— pain, pain, PAIN._

_**PAIN**._

Without warning, everything halts.

No more terrifying images, no screaming, no pain—

It’s all gone.

A new memory plays, this one in vibrant color.

_Claudia._

_She’s stroking Walmart’s feathers, cooing softly as Stiles— a young child in the memory— tentatively reaches out to do the same. There’s no pain here, only silence._

The scene changes. _A stone-faced Natalie faces Peter and coldly demands, “I want her gone.”_

The memories continue on without any reprieve and the next appears fairly recent.

_Stiles is staring at Walmart. Though his expression is pinched, his voice is calm as he reaches out and patiently says, “Hey, lil K-Mart. I’m paying attention. I’m here. You want to get some fresh air?”_

He remembers that. It had been in the cafeteria. It feels like forever ago, but it hasn’t really been that long, has it? Had that moment actually meant something to Walmart?

There’s a bright flash and the scene rapidly morphs from one to the another:

_Claudia’s dead body covered in blood and soil._

_Then— the agency erupting in chaos. Screaming and gunfire in the background as Cora and Laura tear agents apart, their eyes blazing red._

_“There’s more of them!” someone shrieks._

_Blood splatters the walls, stains the tables, floods the hallways._

_Havoc._

_An image of Stiles’ motionless body, his wrists torn open and eyes unseeing._

_More and more dead bodies, friends and enemies alike._

_Everyone’s dead._

_Everyone._

The screaming stops and the chaos vanishes as quickly as it’d appeared.

Mercifully, the stomach-churning visions are once again replaced by quieter ones. One by one they appear, each only lasting for the briefest moment:

_Derek, through Walmart’s eyes, smiling softly at Stiles when he isn’t paying attention._

_Laura’s mouth splitting on a wide grin as she reaches out with a kind hand._

_Claudia giggling._

_Claudia feeding him popcorn._

_Claudia whispering to Walmart, “You be good to him, okay?” and patting him lightly on the head._

_Walmart perching on the gravestone for Claudia’s family. Staring out into nothingness and waiting for a return that’d never come._

_Claudia._

_Claudia._

_Claudia._

Faster and faster the memories come, until Stiles can no longer discern one from the other. Fleeting moments of contentedness, if they could be called that. Or, perhaps they were merely moments without pain. Maybe that’s the same thing, in Walmart’s world. Brief, but gentle moments, mixed with periods of incomprehensible pain, confusion, and sorrow.

Stiles withdraws his hand, severing the connection between them. Voice wrecked, he chokes out, “I’m _so_ sorry. It won’t hurt anymore. No more pain, I promise. It’ll all be over. _I’m so sorry_.”

He wishes he could say more, wishes he could make up for all the pain and suffering his familiar has been through, but it would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

This is the best he can offer: an apology and a promise that it’s over. That the pain is finally over.

Black ink-like drops drip from Walmart’s wings, splattering onto the stone floor with a soft _tap, tap, tap_.

Had Walmart seen this too, along with all the other visions of death? Had he known, all along, of his own demise? Could that have been what caused his morbid visions? Had they existed, not because of Stiles’ mistakes, but because Walmart was trying to warn of the dangers ahead? Not only the deaths of Claudia and Stiles’ friends, but the entire agency, and his own as well?

Had he repeatedly committed suicide, instinctively recognizing that that would be his purpose in the end? To die, to allow himself to be sacrificed, to save them?

He had given him the pendant and nails, knowing what it would mean for himself.

The world flickers and dims as the lights above them stutter.

Despite Scott being unresponsive and oblivious to the drama around him, Stiles can’t help but envy him. He wishes he didn’t have to go through this, but Walmart suffered in silence for eleven years. Stiles could withstand a few minutes, or hours. However long it may take.

Kate’s body is so far untouched by the inky darkness. Her chest rises and falls with tiny breaths. She’s alive, but barely. She wouldn’t survive this, whatever this is.

Would Stiles’ fate be similar, now that he’s lost his familiar? Would he be comatose in a short time? Would he know it, if he were?

Had his sacrifice made any difference at all?

Was it enough?

Please. Let it be enough. This couldn’t have been for nothing.

“Stiles,” Heather gasps. “Your eyes.”

Black rivers lead from blue eyes and flow down her cheeks, startling Stiles back a step. Her words sluggishly register in his mind and he reaches up to touch his own face with trembling hands.

Wet. His face is wet.

Black stains mar his fingertips when he pulls them away.

Walmart hovers in the air, liquid dripping from his wings at a steadier pace. It swallows their pentagram, sacrifices, and blood, and seeps into the bottoms of their shoes. It leaks out of the cracks in the walls and runs rivulets down the corners of the room. With more liveliness than she’s shown in days, Heather throws her head back and _cackles_.

It’s the sound of witchcraft; of devilishness and power. Vengefulness and magic.

Black goo falls from her chin and pours out of her mouth as she laughs.

The air thickens with the overwhelming smell of sulphur. Of brimstone, fire, and ash.

“Make them pay, make them all pay for what they’ve done!” she screeches, hysteria mixing with fury.

They’ve finally broken her. Or had Stiles done that, by taking away the last of her family, her coven, her sanity?

He watches her with a sense of detachedness, and Claudia’s voice rings in his ears.

_“We might have sulphur in our blood, but we don’t have to let the darkness in our hearts. The potential for evil is there, within us, but the potential for evil is in everyone. Humans and supernaturals alike.”_

Desperation creates monsters, doesn’t it?

“Swallow them whole! Drown them in their blood!”

Is that what they are?

The blood flowing from her wounded arm darkens to black and halts. Defying gravity and all sense, it takes on a life of its own and skitters its way up her arms. It grows and morphs, until both of her arms are entirely swathed in darkness. It claws its way up her neck and trickles down her legs, swallowing her whole.

Scott is covered too, unrecognizable beneath a layer of thick sludge.

A quick glance down is enough to confirm Stiles’ suspicions. It’s covering him too, already sneaking its way past his torso and arms. His feet are covered and connected to the liquid layer on the ground, making it impossible to discern where he ends and the floor begins.

“ _Kill them all!”_ Heather’s voice breaks and her shaky breaths dissolve into sobs. She sinks to her knees, her lower half instantly lost in the black swamp. “And then kill me too. _Please_. I don’t want to do this anymore! Just let me be at peace. I want to go home! I want Claudia. I want to be with my mom.” She drops her hands into the darkness. It rises rapidly and the tips of her blonde hair stain with the tacky black substance.

It won’t be long now.

“Please. I want to be with my _mom_.”

Stiles feels nothing but the sensation of burning. It begins slowly, with a minor heat that builds until his entire body is engulfed in flames. He’s scalding and burning from the inside out, though there’s no evidence of it on his skin. Not this time. Not a flicker of a flame in this inky blackhole.

The darkness around him— underneath him, on him— shifts and bright light bursts from Walmart. Rays of colors of every hue radiating out of him. An eclipsing sun; a black figure surrounded in blinding light, harsh and strenuous to stare at directly, but it’s mesmerizing. Difficult to look away.

Heather’s screams and Scott’s cries of pain follow, their voices mixing in a horrifying harmony. The fire grows stronger within Stiles and it feels like he’s so full of pain that he’s going to burst, his skin ripping open, and tearing him apart.

The fear of three lives being cut short, with so much they never got to experience flashes through his mind.

But then, he thinks of the happiness he had felt with his mother and Heather— their little family of three. He remembers the sound of Laura’s vivacious laughter. Scott and his many antics over the years. Allison’s dimply Disney-princess smiles. The warm contentedness he’d felt when Heather had first called him her brother. The one time he’d made Lydia laugh so hard she snorted.

Derek’s genuine smiles and the way they made his eyes crinkle in the corners.

With memories and love swirling through him, he admits that maybe— just maybe— he’d had a pretty amazing life after all.

He hopes Walmart did too. That it wasn’t all bad or painful for him. He hopes there were moments of dazzling brightness in Walmart’s life too.

Life can’t be all sorrow, can it?

No, he doesn’t think so.

  
o0o0o0o

 _  
Stiles was ten years old and engulfed in flames, screaming in agony. Begging for help. If only someone, anyone, could just make it_ stop _._

_Claudia stood next to Deaton, the two of them watching with a mixture of horror and understanding. They had known it was a matter of time before he lost control completely, but that didn’t make it any easier to witness._

_Heather, much smaller yet still strong-willed, was tightly latched onto Claudia’s hand as she observed the scene with a guilty expression._

_“Stiles, you need to control it. It’s within you. You need to calm down,” Claudia instructed._

_“He didn’t mean to hurt me. It was an accident. I told Miss Natalie, but she said he was no good.” Heather tugged on Claudia’s sleeve, imploring her to listen. “And that she was gonna send him away if he didn’t do better. And then Stiles got upset and ran here and set himself on fire, but I don’t think he meant to do that either.”_

_“That wretched woman,” Claudia snarled. “She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. Who cares if we suffer as long as she finds success? This isn’t a protection agency, this is a punishment.”_

_“Claudia, please. Now is not the time,” Deaton admonished. He attempted to approach Stiles, whose outline was only faintly visible through the flames. He was still alive though, they weren’t concerned about that. His magic wouldn’t kill him. Other people, however…_

_Stiles’ screams were steady and heart-breaking, and Flames swirled around him, unwilling to let anyone close. Not Deaton. Not Claudia. No one._

_Flickering lights of red, orange and yellow reflected in Deaton’s eyes as beads of sweat collected on his bald head. The heat of the flames was almost overwhelming._

_Heather wasn’t sleeping from the stress of her magic and Stiles was on_ fire _! One could argue there was no better time to discuss the situation. But Deaton was right and her son was in pain and begging for her help. Anger won’t help him, it would only make things worse._

_Claudia forced her shoulders to relax and softened her breathing, letting her anger flow over her skin like water. She removed her hand from Heather’s and bent down to her level._

_“You remember our motto, right, sweetheart?” She forced her voice to come out calm, despite the insanity of their current situation._

_Her_ child _was in pain and_ on fire _, but she was determined not to be the reason for her other child freaking out._

_Heather hesitated, and then nodded._

_“Can you tell me what it is? Loud enough for Stiles to hear.”_

_“Coven over everything,” Heather announced, voice uncertain and shaky, but loud enough. Claudia beamed with pride._

_“That’s right. And why is the coven more important than anything else?” Claudia prompted._

_“Because the coven is family and, um…” Heather bit her lip as she searched her memory for the right words. “‘Cause family’s all we got.”_

_Close enough._

_“That’s my girl,” Claudia said, standing and peering back at the still-raging fire. “You hear that, Stiles? You remember those words I taught you?_ ‘Coven over everything’. _We are your coven. We’re right here and we’re not leaving you. You will_ never _be abandoned. Never.”_

_Flames flickered and his screaming stopped, only to be replaced by terrified sobs._

_“Can you repeat it back to me? Can you tell me why we’re not leaving you behind?” Claudia called out. Stiles mumbled a reply too low to hear over the cackling of the fire. It didn’t matter. “Good! That was good. Can you keep repeating those words? Try saying them louder this time.”_

_The flames flickered again as they dwindled in size, their movements slowing down as though they were being sapped of their energy— Stiles’ fear._

_When the flames lowered enough, and her son’s tear and ash-streaked face was revealed, Claudia finally felt like she could breathe. His cracked lips were moving as he recited the mantra, his eyes black as night and unseeing, like he was gazing off into a far off distance._

_“Coven over everything, coven over everything.”_

_Thankfully, it didn’t take much longer before he turned to face Claudia, his eyes back to normal as he regained control. Claudia smiled proudly, even as her eyes stung with unshed tears._

_He had done so well. Her tough little boy._

_“Oh my. My little brimstone boy, come here. Was that scary for you?” she crooned, opening her arms in invitation._

_A single, shaky step forward is all the warning she got before Stiles launched himself towards her. The last of the flames vanished in a wisp of smoke as he reached out for her, his arms, neck, and face decorated with black, inky images of moving flames. They swirled and writhed across his skin like they were alive._

_“I can’t make it stop,” he sobbed, voice muffled as he pressed his face into her shirt. Heather moved closer to rub at his back, attempting to console him the best she could._

_“Sweetie, I don’t think you can.”_

_It wasn’t as common these days, since most witches lived long lives. But, when they didn’t… when they were burned…_

_“Your magic is trying to protect you,” she said. But the danger was over, wasn’t it? Why was his magic still reacting like this, flowing across his skin like living stains? It should have stopped._

_Why wasn’t it stopping?_

_Puzzled, Claudia looked to Deaton for explanation._

_“I suspect it believes he’s still in danger.”_

_It wasn’t a comforting answer._

_Claudia offered her son a reassuring smile, though it wasn’t easy to maintain. The last thing she felt like doing was smiling. But that didn’t matter._

_“It’s okay, baby. Your magic is protecting you. Keeping you safe. That’s a good thing. It’ll stop soon.” She hoped._

_“It’s ugly,” Stiles cried, shattering her heart further._

_“No, it’s not. It’s beautiful.” She tapped a finger against the black inky blob on his bicep. “Like this one here. I think it kind of looks like a bird. What do you think?”_

_Stiles squinted at where she was pointing, his face pinched with concentration. Beneath her finger, the inky blob changed, refining its shape, shifting its hues, and adding details until it settled on the life-like image of a black bird._

_“Oh my,” Claudia breathed, pulling back her hand. She shot Deaton a meaningful look. One that went unnoticed by her chattering children._

_“It looks like a crow,” Heather stated as she leaned closer._

_A crow. Hadn’t a ‘shadow bird’ led Stiles to the agency all those years ago? This was it, wasn’t it? This was her son’s familiar finally being brought to life._

_Stiles glanced at her warily, as if waiting for her to mock him or run screaming. They didn’t get along, after all. He probably thought there was no way she’d want to hang out with him after this. But Heather was nothing but surprising and hard-headed._

_She stared back coolly, seemingly unbothered by the black shadows gliding across his body._

_After a beat of silence, he quietly asked, “Is that good?”_

_Heather shrugged. “I dunno. I guess? They’re kind of everywhere. Like a Walmart.”_

_“What’s a Walmart?” Stiles’ frown deepened, not understanding the Outside reference. Claudia covered her mouth to hide her amusement._

_“Nevermind,” Heather sighed. “I like it though. The bird. It’s cool.”_

_Stiles glanced back down, his fingers running along the stationary tattoo. “Yeah. It’s okay, I guess.”_

_“I think it’s the coolest,” Claudia declared, “and it’s extra special, do you know why?” At Stiles’ shake of his head, she grinned widely. “That’s your familiar. Remember what we told you about familiars? They’ll be your friend for life, a friend made just for you, to help you control your magic. What do you think about that, hmm?”_

_“A friend made just for me?” Stiles echoed, eyeing the bird tattoo with dubious, but hopeful, awe._

_“Just for you. And, from now on, they’ll be with you forever.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear that 'happy ending' tag isn't a lie. 
> 
> EDIT: Now we finally know what Walmart is and why he's named that. Yay! Another mystery solved. Now, after reading a few comments, I've decided on my question for you guys: 
> 
> **What part/line made you cry the hardest?**
> 
> Finally, I leave you all with a choice. A [sad song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NxV7C6NELqA) or a [not sad song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWKDZRJWdF4). Now go watch some happy cat videos on Youtube.


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